Going Home
by Muna16
Summary: This is a Huddy fic that looks at the evolving relationship between House and Cuddy after his return from Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. Also emphasized in the story are House's childhood and his philosophies of life and of medicine. 62 chapters


**Chapter One: The Report**

Dr. Lisa Cuddy closed the door of the nursery quietly. She headed straight to the kitchen to prepare her tea. It had become a nightly ritual. The tea helped her sleep.

Rachel had taken longer than usual to fall asleep. In a strange way, Rachel's sleeping and eating had been affected by the changes in Cuddy over the past several weeks. Cuddy's happy, loveable baby had turned into something of a mess – crying at all hours, fussy at mealtimes, not quite as playful. Cuddy would like to think that she was teething, but she knew that wasn't it. Every doctor instinct she had told her that it was the changes in her environment that brought on the changes in her behavior.

Cuddy hadn't intended for these changes to happen. With House at Mayfield, she had to put in even more hours at the hospital, keeping an eye on his team, and even helping with the more difficult patients. Thirteen would have unnecessarily amputated George Simmon's right arm had she not determined the infection was in his liver. They were good doctors but seemed useless without House. She questioned herself – is that why she was working longer hours, or was that her excuse to say connected to House? She no longer knew.

And now, even her daughter was suffering the consequences of House's absence. Even when Cuddy was home she was distracted, even depressed. She knew she had to be strong, she knew Rachel needed her to be strong, but the truth is she was a nervous wreck. She wasn't sure if House would ever be himself again. She grabbed her tea and sat at her dining room table, reviewing the exit report from Mayfield.

According to the report, he was ready to go back to work. He had completed the detox. It had taken three weeks in total to get the drugs out of his system. She skimmed this part of the report because she did not want to picture it, the nausea, the heaving and the chills. And House at Mayfield, alone. What had he meant in her office that last day, "I told you I needed you. You helped me." Cuddy still didn't know what he was talking about. She had refused to ask Wilson because she didn't want to hear it from him. Actually, she had been avoiding Wilson for the past six weeks precisely because she did not want to hear it from him. She knew he would feel compelled to spill it, always the matchmaker, always House's protector.

She continued skimming the report as she took a sip of tea. There was a section titled Pain Management. The steps the doctors at the hospital took to establish a new pain regimen for House are explained in detail. The first couple of attempts did not work. She let out a giggle when she learned House underwent physical therapy for the entirety of his stay there. Now that is funny, she thought, considering how much fun he had made of Mark, Stacy's Mark, for his attempts at physical therapy at PPTH. Now Cuddy reached the update of his mental status.

The report had arrived by messenger early in the morning. It had startled her. She knew that House would be released soon, but she still was not expecting the report. It had caught her by surprise. She was so shocked by her own reaction to receiving it that she decided to stay at home for the day. She sent Theresa, her nanny, back home with a day off, called her assistant at the hospital and asked her to clear her schedule because she would be working from home. "If anyone asks," she said, "tell them Rachel is sick."

She felt guilty about the lie – she did not want Wilson or anyone else worrying about Rachel or about her. But she needed the time to read the report. She knew it was going to affect her, and she knew she would be useless at work.

She stared down at the paper again. For the twentieth or thirtieth time, she read about House's treatment, his talk therapy, his therapy group, and the progress that he made connecting with feeling of regret regarding the bus accident and his colleague's suicide. There wasn't a lot of personal detail here. Actually, it was devoid of all personal detail. She knew how many times he attended therapy, how many total hours of therapy he received, and that he was cooperative during most of the sessions. She also knew he had stopped suffering from the hallucinations almost immediately after his admission. She knew he had a clean bill of health to go back to work.

"I haven't slept since Kutner killed himself." She remembered writing the prescription for Ambien. She knew, that night in her office, that something was wrong. Why did she write the prescription? "Talk to me." She had asked House to talk to her, and he had. He had confessed he wasn't sleeping. Why was she so quick to believe that? Why did she write the prescription?

For the first time in the twelve months since the bus accident, Lisa Cuddy knew exactly how House felt about Amber's death. She knew exactly what it was like to feel guilty for something that was not quite her fault, but that did involve her and her actions. It did not feel good. She put the report back in the file, and was startled by the quiet knock on the door. She glanced at her watch, tied her robe around her waist, and cautiously looked through the peephole. Her heart jumped. It was House.

**Chapter Two: The Door**

He had been standing outside of Lisa Cuddy's house for over an hour. It was cold and windy. He zipped up his black leather jacket to his neck and had his hands hidden in his pockets. He had told the taxi driver to leave because he was not going to back down this time – he was going to knock. He literally had no choice. He was not going to get very far on his bad leg with his cane and his suitcase, and he didn't have his cell to call Wilson. For the first time in House's recent memory, he was not going to be able to call Wilson to save him. He was going to have to save himself.

Still, he stood outside, in the cold wind, looking through the window. He could see her at the dining room table, reading some papers and drinking her tea. He remembered that other time he had come to see her, on his bike, and left the same way, without knocking, without letting her know how he felt.

He kept looking at her, studying her face, or what he could see of it. Her robe was open, and he could see the curves of her chest since her nightgown was low cut. Damn that woman is sexy, he thought. It had been six weeks, and he missed seeing her. He missed her curves, her eyes, the way her hair covers her eyes. He was glad Wilson was able to keep her away from Mayfield. He did not want to see her there. He did not want her to ever think of him as a patient at Mayfield. Would she be mad or relieved that he had not put her on the visiting list? He wasn't sure, but he would soon find out. He took a couple of steps forward, towards her door, careful to not make any noise. He kept looking at her through the window. He was looking for clues. She is drinking tea. Is it chamomile? Was she trying to calm her nerves or help get to sleep? Was she just drinking tea because she was thirsty? Oh God, what was he doing there? His heart started to race and he looked back at the street. Of course, the cab was gone. He had sent him away over 30 minutes ago. Still, he instinctively looked for a way out.

He looked at her again. He could see the lines on her forehead now. She looked worried, and sad. He felt a pang of guilt and remorse. She was right when she said in his office that everyone around him gets hurt. He thought about the therapy, the mantras: it's not your fault, House. You have to love yourself, House. You have to accept yourself, House. Nobody's perfect, House. He remembered them all. At the time he was so weak that he listened. He was so scared that be made himself believe it. He made himself believe that he could let go some of the misery – that he deserved to let go of it. Thinking about the therapy, and the mantras, and that bast*** his father who had started all of his self-loathing almost 50 years ago he let out a gasp and swallowed hard. He looked one last time at his boss, through the window, came up the steps and knocked on the door.

**Chapter 3: No Going Back**

She opened the door nervously and quickly. "House – what are you doing here?" she asked, wanting to hug him but unsure of what she should do. He leaned on his cane and asked if he could come in. She closed the door behind him, and offered him tea.

"No, I'm okay," he said. A wave of sadness filled both of them, as the words inadvertently reminded them of that last day in her office, when he finally admitted he wasn't okay. "I mean, I don't want tea," he quickly recovered, making Cuddy smile. "I know that's what you meant, House," she said. "It hasn't been that long."

They sat on the sofa. It was, they both agreed, awkward. She wasn't sure what to say, he wasn't sure how to begin. "Your team misses you," Cuddy began, thinking this was a safe place to start. It was business, and impersonal, but perfectly appropriate – especially since he would be back on Monday. "They haven't had a patient in a couple of days so they have been helping in the clinic."

House looked at her and smiled. My God is she beautiful, he thought. How could I have worked with her for all of the years and not made a move, a real move? Just then Cuddy got up and went to the dining room, picked up the file and brought it back to him on her couch. She handed it over.

"You were probably going to break into my office on Monday to read it, so I'll save you the trouble. I thought Wilson was picking you up tomorrow?"

House opened the file and began to skim it. "I decided to leave tonight because I wanted to see you and I knew the cabbie wouldn't be hounding me with advice all the way over here." He skipped down to the section about his therapy. He was wondering how much they would tell her. Bingo, he thought to himself, almost nothing at all.

He handed the file to Cuddy. "Is everything going to be okay at work? Does everyone think I've been in a straight jacket getting lobotomized?" he asked, half jokingly, yet half serious.

"House, Wilson and I told the team and the board of directors the same thing; you opted for a strict drug rehabilitation program for your Vicodin abuse. That is all." Cuddy was convincing. She was using her best maternal voice, the one that sometimes made him call her Mommy. Looking at the red of her lips in the soft glow of her living room light did not make him think of her as Mommy.

"That line probably fooled the board of idiots that pays your salary," House responded, "but my team is smarter than that. I trained them to be smarter than that." He looked down at his hands. He was fidgeting with them because he was nervous. Now there was a silent pause again. He looked at his fingers as he rubbed them together and remembered the Vicodin bottle, the shock of feeling it in his hands for the first time that night, the shock of the delusion crashing down on him. He instinctively rubbed his leg. He wasn't even sure it hurt, he rubbed it anyway.

"House," Cuddy said, grabbing his hands. He was startled. The feel of her warm hands on his sent a shock through his body. She held his hands and did not let them go, she searched his eyes but he kept staring at his leg. He felt the electricity of her touch but could not bring himself to look up. She let go if his hands and got up, walking towards the kitchen. He followed her, rubbing his leg with one hand, holding the cane with the other.

Cuddy served herself a glass of water and handed one to him. "Why are you here, House. What was so important that you…" In one quick movement he put his fingers on her mouth, to keep her from talking. His right arm flung firmly around her waist, pulling her close to him. He buried his head in her neck, tears forming, but he fought them back. Cuddy was so surprised by his quick movement and the firmness of his touch that she straightened up in his hold. Feeling his breath on her neck, and wetness on her hair, (was he crying?), she loosened up and returned the intimacy of the hold. She lowered her face to his chest and wrapped her hands tightly around his neck. He pulled back and their eyes met completely. He was doing his best to tell her everything he had wanted to tell her over the past twenty years with this one, honest look. He knew, of course, that this was a cop out. Wilson would not be proud. He would have to be a grown up and use words. For now, though, he felt as if he was letting her look at his soul. She did not look away,

He gasped for air before his next sentence. "They said at Mayfield that I shouldn't jump into a relationship for at least a couple of months – until I get a chance to see what life will be like without the Vicodin." He had whispered it. Her eyes were locked on his. "Well, then," said Cuddy, "that explains why you came here tonight." She let go of his neck and walked away, back to the living room.

He limped across the dining room, following her to the living room. "You are an a$$," she said, her voice breaking. The words cut like a stab to the stomach. "That's right," he returned, sarcastically, "I came here tonight with all of my a$$hood to tell you I have always loved you, every day, since that first endocrinology class. I must be an a$$."

He was at the door before she could respond. As he opened it she shut it from behind him. She was crying now, really crying. She buried her head on his chest. He held her tight, tossing his cane on the couch.

There were so many things she needed to know. About Mayfield, about the days before Mayfield, about how he felt physically…there was so much she needed to know, but there was no time for that now. She had just heard what she has wanted to know for twenty years. She had always felt it, his respect and admiration, his belief that she was his equal, always up to the task of challenging him, but she had never thought she would hear these words out loud. She had accepted their relationship as it was. A lot of sexual tension mixed in with friendship and the occasional professional skirmish. She had grown to enjoy their special kind of intimacy. But then that kiss the night she lost her baby, and then the desk he had arranged to be brought to her office…she had started to believe there could be more. She fought the belief because it was not rational. Then Rachel took up most of her energy, and here they were now.

She pulled her face back, and he wiped her tears with both of his hands, cupping her face. She lifted her face towards his as he leaned in, their lips barely touching at first, then rubbing softly as their mouths parted open for a deep, open kiss filled with passion and longing. They held the kiss, forgetting to breathe, for as long as they could. His arms were wrapped around her waist, and then one moved up to her neck. She pulled back to catch her breath, but before she could his mouth was on hers again, more forcefully this time. The loud and piercing cry of a baby startled them and made House jump back against the door. Cuddy adjusted her robe, kissed House on the cheek lightly and asked him to wait. She nervously walked to Rachel's room and quietly opened her door. House leaned against the front door, surprised by his own words and actions, and annoyed by the piercing screams of that baby.

**Chapter 4: The Elephant in the Room**

Cuddy had gotten Rachel back to sleep in just a few minutes. As she sat in the rocker with her, holding her tenderly, she could not keep her thoughts away from House. So many images were going through her mind. She thought about House back when she met him in college. She thought of their one tryst in her dorm room, on her antique desk. She thought about his infarction, Stacy's decision and her role in it. She thought about bringing Stacy back to work at PPTH. Why had she done that? Shy had she hired her? Had she also been in love with House all along? Had she brought Stacy back so that he could get her out of his system and be done with her forever? She tried not to think about the days right before Mayfield. She hated thinking about those days. She hated herself for what she had missed. Instead, she thought to herself, he loves me. She put Rachel down softly in her crib, and eased out of her door.

As she approached her living room, she did not see House. He wasn't on the couch, or by the door. She turned to the dining room, thinking she would find him reviewing the file, but no, he was not there. Oh my God, she thought to herself, he ran, again. The bast*** ran again. She hated herself, this time for thinking the result would be different. Then she felt it, his eyes burning through her back.

"How's Rachel?" he asked, coming from the kitchen with the glass of water she had served him. "Asleep," Cuddy responded, relieved to see him, looking as sweet and vulnerable as he had when she left him.

"Cuddy," House began, measuring each word as if his very life depended on them. "I am so sorry for that night in your office, what I said about Rachel." Cuddy went up to him and grabbed his hand, "That wasn't you, House, there is nothing to forgive."

House thought about that. He had replayed the incident in his mind a billion times. He replayed it the way it happened, the way his delusion told him it had happened, the way he wished it would have happened (they don't even make it out of the office in that version). He had thought and thought about it, he had obsessed about it in therapy. He was ready for this conversation.

"The thing is, that comment, it was me. I was pissed at Rachel and pissed at you for wanting her." House did not want to repress any more. If his breakdown had really been the result of drugs and repression, well then, he would not do that to himself again. He knew this wouldn't be easy for Cuddy to hear, but he trusted her to respect him for telling the truth.

She was surprised by the biting honesty. "Damnit House, you are not the most romantic guy in the world, are you." She let go if him and sat on the couch, unsure if they could ever reach the passion they had shared by the door. He sat down next to her. The nearness of his body to hers immediately excited her, and she knew anything was possible again. How could she feel this way about a man just out of a mental institution who professed he loved her out of his own a$$hood while admitting he is jealous of her baby? Cuddy was sure at 10:30 p.m. on Friday evening that she was the one losing her mind.

House turned to look at her. He could not believe he was doing this. He was having somewhat of an out of body experience, looking at himself sitting on Cuddy's couch facing her, prepared to open up to her completely. Was this a slipcover? That wasn't there before, he thought, a Rachel addition. He reminded himself to look around carefully for other Rachel changes, but then looked back at her quickly to not let the moment escape him, escape them. She deserved to know everything there was to know before she could decide if they should go further as a couple. Had he just thought that? Couple? He and Lisa Cuddy?

"It's the same thing I did to Wilson," House said, "when he started dating Amber." At the sound of her name a shiver went through his body. He didn't know if it was the name that affected Cuddy, or the way he said it, but Cuddy responded by tightening up too. House went on, he had nothing to lose, he had already almost come as close as a person can come to losing everything. "I was terrible to Amber and to Wilson for dating her, until I realized she was going to be in his life whether I wanted her to be or not, and Amber and I came up with a plan to share him."

He had said it. He had given her something he hoped would help her understand why he had trouble accepting Rachel. He had done it by revealing everything and not revealing too much, all at the same time. All in a day's work for the brilliant Dr. House, he thought, feeling his mojo for the first time in weeks.

It is too bad that Cuddy was not as impressed with him as he was. She wasn't sure what to say. She was glad for the honesty, though she wanted to hear about him and her and Rachel, not about Amber. She didn't want to know anything about Amber. Her feelings about Amber were so mixed. That woman had nearly cost her two of the finest doctors the hospital had ever had – and both were her only friends. On top of that, she didn't know everything, but she knew that Amber was related to the hallucinations. She wasn't sure if this made her feel jealous or guilty – guilty that she had pushed him to accept responsibility for her death. No, she had very mixed feelings about Amber and she did not want to talk about Amber. She knew the answer, the date and time, was in the report, but she needed to hear it from House. She surprised herself with the question. "When was the last time you saw her, Amber?" Her voice must have quivered; he put his hand awkwardly on hers.

"The hallucinations got worse before they got better, but when I had hit the worst of the detox, that's when they vanished." He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the back of the cushion. He was massaging his leg again. Cuddy didn't move a muscle. She sat there looking at him, wondering what would come next. She was having an actual personal conversation with him. She was proud of him – she knew how hard this was for him. The information was coming in slow bursts, but it was coming. Was he doing this, pushing himself to open up, for her?

She wouldn't allow herself to push for more. Not now, his leg must be hurting. He had already said more to her than he had said in the last 20 years. She was not going to push, not now. She looked up at the same ceiling House was looking up at. She thought of her handyman, the one who had lost his hand after he fell off her roof. She thought of House, handling the case, convincing her that she was too close to it to think rationally. That was probably the low point of her career; he would have died without House. House saved him, in more ways than one. She found out from Stacy later that the lawsuit was House's idea. He had abated Cuddy's guilt for his loss of livelihood without taking credit for the action. Sure, it had cost the hospital a hefty settlement, but she remembered thinking that day that House had a noble soul. The thing with House was that his nobility was in his actions, never his words. Today, it seemed to be everywhere, and for Cuddy, this was too good to be true.

He stopped massaging his leg and held her hand, not awkwardly this time, intimately. Their fingers intertwining as if this were a regular ritual. Still looking up at the ceiling, he said "The hallucinations didn't scare me. I thought I could use them. At first, Amber was a blessing." She turned to House, she looked at him though he kept his look directed towards the ceiling. "She helped me with cases. It didn't take long for me to realize she was just my subconscious – the right part of my brain – the part that uses only reason and logic." He stopped abruptly, unable to go further. He had to explain Kutner, and the delusion. He wanted it all out on the table. If she was going to let him in, she had to know everything. It's the same way he treated his patients, really. He gave them the truth, the solution to the puzzle. Then the choice was theirs. He was taking a huge risk; he was risking it all. If this was too much for Cuddy he didn't know how things would be between them. He couldn't imagine working for her if she rejected him. He couldn't imagine it at all. But still, he knew this was the only way.

Sensing his conflict, Cuddy got up and headed towards the kitchen. "Do you want a glass of wine, or a beer?" she asked, looking to help him relax. He followed her. "Nope – that's a rule too. But I am starving. Do you have eggs? " She was mad at herself for offering the booze. As she took out the eggs, House found the pan and gathered condiments. "I should have known, you are susceptible to replacing one addiction with another. That was stupid."

He sat in a stool by the island of Cuddy's kitchen and he watched her work. She moved like a goddess, effortlessly cracking eggs and scrambling them to perfection. He thought about that night in college. He thought about that kiss in her living room when she lost the baby. He thought about the delusion but tried to force that away. It felt wrong thinking about it, like it was a violation of her privacy. He didn't know what made the delusion different from all of his other Cuddy fantasies, but in his mind, it was. He thought about the kiss in her living room just a few minutes ago, by the door. Anything was possible. He had to keep pushing.

As they sat together and ate, he told her about Kutner and the left side of his brain, and the struggle he had to put them together. He told her about Kutner and his suicide and what that had really done to him. He held his wrist where the watch had been that Kutner gave him, his farmer's tan long gone after the weeks without it. He made a mental note to ask Wilson for it as soon as he saw him tomorrow.

By the time he had finished talking, by the time he had said almost everything he could say in one sitting, it was nearly 4 a.m. They had long moved back to the couch. She was resting on his shoulder as they talked. There was no awkwardness to the new silence that overcame them. She felt comfortable with him. He felt comfortable with her. The attraction was there, it was there in the silence more than it had ever been. Cuddy wondered if he needed her to make the first move, and he wondered if it is he who should make the first move. In truth, though, he was simply exhausted, drained, spent. He wondered if that would piss her off. He imagined it would.

"We have almost stayed up all night," House said. "The last time I did that was the Christmas Eve I spent with the donkey riding hooker."

"House," she almost yelled, "What the hell would you tell me that for?" She remembered going through his apartment with Wilson, after his admission to Mayfield, and finding all kinds of porn – in addition to the Vicodin he had stashed throughout the apartment. She had noticed that while she took the Vicodin, Wilson had taken a brown bag of his own. She didn't think they were monster truck magazines, but she had let it go without embarrassing Wilson.

"Oh relax," House said, "she and I just talked too. She was having a crisis of faith, which is ironic for a woman who had just played the Virgin Mary in a church play." Cuddy could not help but laugh, "And you helped her with her crisis of faith, you, House the atheist?"

"I never said I restored her faith," House shot back, "but the crisis was over by 5 a.m."

House thought about the time in college. They had started on her desk and ended on the floor. They had found her dorm bed too small to contain them and their ecstasies. It is still the best sex he has ever had. Of course, his leg was fine then and he was 20 years younger. Stacy was wonderful – there was nothing wrong with her. In many ways, she was the love of his life, but Cuddy – Cuddy was his real match. She knew his rhythms and his needs. They had felt an electricity that he had never felt with anyone else. She was strong. She was beautiful. What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he jumping her right now?

"House," Cuddy said quietly, choosing her words carefully, "You look wasted. Why don't you get a couple of hours of sleep here on the couch – I'll take you to your place in the morning." He was relieved. She understood he was not up to what he really wanted, and she gave him the out. He loved this woman. God did he love her.

He knew she was right, and he needed the sleep. He knew also that he would need her tomorrow. He dreaded the thought of entering his place, of having the delusion crash down on him again. He figured she sensed that. He also figured she was trying to prove to him that she was strong and would be there for him. He hoped she didn't feel any guilt for the breakdown. There was no way for her to prevent it or see it. House guessed that's what the doctors had been trying to tell him for six weeks about Amber and Kutner. Cuddy was back in a flash with a pillow and blanket, but before she was able to turn back towards the hall he pulled her down to the couch, close to him, and kissed her – he kissed her with all of the openness he could muster, exploring her mouth with his tongue, almost deciding he was not too tired afterall. But it was Cuddy who pulled away and thanked him for the down payment before she went to her room and quietly closed the door.

**Chapter 5: Regret**

Cuddy was right about House being exhausted. He took a sip of water and put the glass back on the coffee table. He slipped off his shoes and lay on the couch, covering himself with the blanket she brought him. He smelled it, thinking about what could be – what he had put off for another day – but what was still clearly possible for them. Then, for reasons he can't understand, his thoughts went to Wilson.

House thought about Wilson, and what he would say about what had transpired at Cuddy's tonight. He pictured Wilson's eyes opening and his jaw dropping just at the thought he had left the hospital early to visit Cuddy. He thought about Wilson's reaction to his profession of love. He thought about Wilson's response to his careful explanation of his breakdown, and his apology for what he had said about Rachel.

He thought about Wilson reacting to all of this information – and he held that thought – Wilson would blush and want to fist bump, or something silly. He held on to Wilson's joy in the face of this information because House knew he would not share it with him, at least not yet. These feelings, this vulnerability – it was only for Cuddy for now.

Wilson had visited him often while he was at Mayfield. He had been there for some of the detox – he would have been there for more but the program rules prohibit this. They require their patients to go through most of it alone, so that they are convinced they can face the rest alone. Mayfield wasn't so bad, House thought, not believing he was actually saying this to himself. Wilson had suggested a detox facility, but House knew he needed more than detox. The possible loss of his mind had left him looking for a more extreme alternative. If he was going to lose his mind he wasn't going to let it go without a fight. The doctor he had visited in New York the day of his bike accident worked at Mayfield. He trusted him, for reasons House could not grasp himself.

It wasn't easy, the therapy. He had natural suspicions about it. He especially thought that he himself, Gregory House, was beyond repair. But the doctors and Wilson made him see past that fear to the reality that things could be better. They would never be perfect – they aren't for anyone. But maybe, he didn't have to be so miserable after all.

The hardest part of the stay at Mayfield, aside from the physical pain and the fear, was the session about Wilson which led to the session with Wilson. It was the most painful for House because they had to talk about Amber and the DBS and everything else that had ever happened between them. Wilson was disappointed in House for a million reasons, it seemed, and he didn't mind sharing them that day. Really, it was worse than that night in Wilson's office where Wilson swore they had never been friends. Wilson was filled with so much pain and regret regarding his interactions with House over the past few years that House actually asked him if he wanted to stay, there was an open room down the hall, so he could work out his troubles.

That's when Wilson had really lost it. "Stop deflecting," he had screamed in his loudest voice, a voice House had never heard. And those two words, with that booming, desperate inflection, had done it. Those words, from his best friend, Dr. James Wilson, oncologist extraordinaire, had done what the hours upon hours of therapy had failed to do. House smashed his fist through the wall, breaking through the sheetrock, and started crying. He cried uncontrollably, grasping his hand. Wilson came right over to his side, trying to look at his hand, but House wouldn't let him, he held it and hid it from him, as he had hidden his face from him. He cried, inconsolably, for several minutes while Wilson waited quietly, crying himself, watching his friend go through the feelings he had buried so deeply. Wilson tried again, to look at his hand, and this time House let him. "You need some ice," Wilson said, "but I don't think you broke anything." House looked at him, and they both looked at the wall and the crack in the sheetrock and they laughed. They laughed, and cried, and hugged for a long time.

**Chapter 6: You Get What You Need**

Cuddy hadn't slept well. How could she? House was on her couch. He had told her he loved her. Wait, it was more than that; he said he had always loved her. He had opened up about so much. She couldn't believe everything could go from despair to hope in just a few hours. She remembered a few years ago, how House stood in her office and told her that there is a gapping chasm between the world that exists and the one that she sees. He had said, that day, that this is what makes her a good boss who would never find happiness. These words had stayed with her. Of course she knew that her dedication to the hospital required sacrifices, but here she was, raising a baby by herself, and running the smoothest operation for a teaching hospital on the East coast. Maybe, just maybe, House was wrong that night.

After tossing and turning for most of the early hours of the morning, Cuddy conceded the sleep and took a long shower. She was surprised that Rachel hadn't woken up yet, she is usually an early riser. She hoped that Rachel wouldn't be too fussy this morning. She was still not sure how a relationship could work with House now that she had Rachel. She wasn't sure at all, but then again, House had been so honest about his jealousy. She still couldn't believe it.

As she finished her shower she slipped on her jeans and a low cut sweater. She knew the twins were her best asset, and she know House always noticed them. She was curious if the passion of their last kiss was still on his lips, as they were on hers. She towel dried her hair, leaving it curly, and applied some make-up. As she was touching up her eye-liner she heard mumbles coming from down the hall. She came out of her bathroom to her bedroom, and heard the sound again. As she walked down the hall she could hear the Rolling Stones coming out of Rachel's room. She opened the door to catch House, holding Rachel, mid song, "You can't always get what you want." Rachel looked at him with pure joy, smiling a gurgling at his rhythms. He looked up and saw that he had been busted. He stood up quickly, handing Cuddy the baby. "She woke up and started crying and you were in the shower and..."

"House," Cuddy interrupted, "you are doing fine. Do you mind keeping her busy while I get her breakfast ready? Theresa should be here in a few minutes." They locked looks, then his shot down to her sweater and the curves coming out of them. Cuddy smiled sexily and headed to the kitchen.

**Chapter 7: Sweet Redemption**

The handoff had been easy. Theresa knew where everything was – she was more at ease in Cuddy's house than even Cuddy was most of the time. She came in every Saturday morning to give Cuddy a few hours for the gym and some errands. This was the routine.

All the way to House's place they played a game. It settled the awkwardness, which maybe wasn't even awkwardness anymore, maybe it is sexual tension now mislabeled as awkwardness. Instead of counting cars or the number of people on cel phones or texting while they drive, House would challenge Cuddy with a Vicodin hiding place – he had stashed them all over his home in the event that Wilson would one day force him to sober up. Wilson and Cuddy had assumed this was the case, and they had gone through his apartment together. House was sure they couldn't have gotten it all. "The hall closet," House stated evenly as she made the last right turn before his street. "Check," she said quickly, ending the suspense. "The kitchen cabinet, behind the coffee," he threw at her. "Check," she answered, parking her car directly outside of his building. "Under my bed," he tried again, opening his door and climbing out of the car." This time Cuddy wavered. House felt a rush from his head to his toes. He loved the thrill of being right – they had missed…"Do you mean under the porn in the big box under the bed or between your mattresses in the ziplock in your organic chemistry text or rolled up in Kleenex inside your pillowcase."

They were at his door now, but this last victory of Cuddy's had left her feeling pretty good about herself. She grabbed his hand as she opened his door and led him in. They both stood by the door as he looked around. It was picked up, not the way he had left it; he was sure. He pushed away thoughts and fears. Cuddy turned to him, held him at the neck and pulled him down to her. She could tell he was shaken by seeing the apartment. "The thing is House, I love you too."

What happened next was an explosion of desire, lust and raw emotion. The power of their connection sent books flying from the bookshelf and papers falling from the desk. The kissed each other passionately as they stumbled together down the hall and into his bedroom. Nothing could have prevented this from happening now. The clothes were off and they were in his bed. He did not know how they got there, but they did. Their moment had finally come, and they enjoyed it fully. The sex was achy and ardent; it was the fulfillment of something that had begun so long ago – with a much different encounter. Their union in college had all of the makings of amazing sex; their union today had that and more – it was everything. They lay next to each other, holding each other for some time before the first words were spoken. It was Cuddy who began, "So do you think this is what thy meant at Mayfield about not starting a relationship right away?" House laughed, he knew he had broken the rules, but he had waited so long, and as he started to nibble on her shoulder and begin the motion for a round two, there was a startling knock on the door.

**Chapter 8: Changes**

Wilson had woken up early on Saturday, early for him that is – by 9 a.m. he had showered, had breakfast and started the 90 minute drive to Mayfield. He had made this drive a couple of times a week for the past six weeks – and thankfully, none had featured the dreary, rainy weather of that first time. The weight of those 90 minutes, the weight had been with him for some time. House had been silent, wounded and scared out of his mind. Wilson knew better than to try to talk to him. He had run out of words. It seemed anything he said would only make things worse.

On this last drive to Mayfield, on Saturday morning, his thoughts drifted to the many interactions he had with House on the days before Mayfield. "You're going to end up alone, House." "You are going to lose your rational mind." Why had he said these things? After all of these years, did he, James Wilson, still believe he could scare House into action?

He wondered. He wondered of the House he would find this morning at Mayfield would be a different one from the one that he knew. He wondered if the detox, the new pain management program and the psychological therapy would make a difference in his misery meter. He couldn't tell, from their visits together, if there would be lasting changes. Sure, House seemed, towards the end, to have made some breakthroughs. But Wilson knew House all too well. He knew House was an expert at faking those, and giving people what they want, or thought they wanted, in order to inevitably get what he needs.

Wilson wanted to believe that they had worked through the Amber stuff. For the first time since it happened, Wilson could now look at House without feeling like he was betraying her in some way. Their talk, his seemingly sincere admission of responsibility, had at least given Wilson that. He wondered if it had done anything for House.

Lost in those thoughts, the 90 minutes passed quickly and Wilson found himself at the intake desk, looking for Barbara, the clerk and knower of all things Mayfield. "Dr. Wilson," Barbara called out as she headed from the coffee pot back to the desk with a fresh cup in hand. "What brings you here. Are you taking up House's request and checking yourself in to seek treatment for your messiah complex?"

Wilson chuckled at the comment, a bit confused by the forwardness of it. He hadn't realized he had become so friendly with Barbara that she would joke this way. Then again, it didn't surprise him that House had encouraged her to demean him either.

"I am here to pick him up and get him out of your hair, Barbara" Wilson answered quickly, not able to return the effort at comedy in any way that made sense.

"Pick him up? He left last night, called a cab."

"What? I was supposed to pick him up this morning at 10:30." Wilson was starting to get annoyed. Annoyed, and worried. Why would House leave the day before he was scheduled to leave? "Barbara, can I talk to Dr. Croy? Is he available this morning?" Wilson asked with hesitation. He was worried about House. He could have conceivably left on his own in order to seek drugs, or to avoid reality, or to get drunk. No, this did not feel right.

"Honey, Dr. Croy doesn't come in on Saturdays, but I can tell you're worried." She held Wilson's hand for a moment. "House is okay. If you look at his exit report it was signed and executed last week. He stayed an extra week to be sure of himself when he got out." She came a little closer and tightened her grip on his hand, "He is okay."

Wilson had almost fallen backwards on his a$$ when she said he had stayed an extra week in order to be sure he was okay. That decision showed maturity and commitment. That was incredible, nothing less than a triumph really.

The drive back to Princeton was much different than the drive to Mayfield. He was no longer reluctant, no longer afraid of what he might find. Now he had a purpose – to kick House's a$$ for stealing 3 beautiful hours form his Saturday morning. That's right. Wilson wasn't going to pick up his dry cleaning, or go for a run in the park, or complete his normal Saturday rituals, he was going to find House and let him have it.

To think he had thought House had changed. Maybe he had, when it came to recovery, but here he was, not calling Wilson to tell him he didn't need the ride, the same selfish bast*** he always was. The thought brought a smile to Wilson's face. He was relieved. He had been afraid the treatment would kick the spirit out of him. He would never admit this to House, but Wilson needed House to need him. Wilson loved to hear House recklessly say what others wouldn't out of his ridiculous commitment to honesty. Wilson loved that someone like House could exist. His brilliance, his understanding of the world as it is, even the way he embraces his own personal misery – Wilson secretly loved all of it. Still, he wasn't going to admit that, certainly not today, when he was so pissed.

At House's apartment in 65 minutes, he knocked on the door. He did not hear any sounds coming from the apartment, so he knocked again, this time louder. He heard House mumble something. For a moment, Wilson's heart skipped quicker, afraid House was in pain or sprawled on the floor drunk. He knocked again, more urgently. House finally opened the door, looking disheveled and somewhat relaxed.

"What the hell are you doing here?" House said, annoyed that Wilson had showed up without calling, worrying about Cuddy in the other room.

"Me? Why the hell didn't you call to tell me you had left Mayfield?"

At this question, House smiled. He couldn't help it. He had done it on purpose. He wasn't sure why, but he loved to test Wilson. These tests were designed with no particular purpose. If he looked at it through Dr. Croy's eyes, he would probably believe he did it to test his loyalty, to be sure that nothing House would do to him would make him abandon him. But he didn't look at it that way. He just kind of enjoyed pissing him off. "My bad," House quipped quickly. "Now, do me a favor and get out." Reaching behind Wilson, House opened the front door.

"House! Three hours. I spent three hours driving back and forth, and for.."

"I got, it Wilson, I got it. I forgot to call. I said I was sorry, now GO." House yelled the last part loudly, hoping it would scare Wilson out quickly before he discovered Cuddy in his bedroom.

Wilson didn't let the angry voice scare him. Instead he went into caretaker mode. "This place is a mess," he said, looking around at the books and paper on the floor. Immediately he thought House must have been looking for the stashed Vicodin, the pills he and Cuddy had cleaned out of his apartment. House read the thoughts in his mind. "It's not what you think," House began. Wilson knew better than to trust him. He looked around, searching for more clues, hoping he and Cuddy had found it all. By the couch he noticed a purse.

"You brought a hooker home? Is that why you left early, a hooker?" Wilson yelled in disbelief.

"Wilson, please leave. I don't need this." House pleaded, he was tired and his leg was starting to hurt. He held on to the door knob with one hand and started to massage his leg with the other.

"House – this is exactly the reckless behavior that you need to stop. My God, haven't you learned any—"

In the middle of that sentence, in the middle of that condescending remark, Cuddy decided she had heard enough. She walked out into the living room, wearing only House's button down blue shirt, the one she likes because it brings out the color in his eyes, and she stood in front of Wilson and said firmly and loudly, "Wilson, thanks for checking on him, he is fine. Please leave."

This time, Wilson was unable to keep himself standing and he landed on the couch on his a$$.

**Chapter 9: The Three Musketeers**

Cuddy sat up in bed, holding the sheet up to her neck, as House closed the door behind him. As House limped down the hall, Cuddy knew it was Wilson at the door. As the knocks grew more desperate, Cuddy also knew House hadn't told him he was leaving a day early, not needing his ride. God, she was scaring herself, she thought, as she heard the heated argument and the confirmation of her suspicions. Was she developing the same deductive skills that House had?

She lay back down in the bed and covered her head with a pillow. What was she doing here? What was she doing with House? Was this a game to him? No, he had said that he loved me. He had said that he had always loved me. This is not a game, thought Lisa Cuddy as she got up from the bed, careful to wrap the sheet around her. This is real life. This is real life with Gregory House. Her heart jumped as she thought of all of the wonderful, tingling sensations she had just felt. He was the best lover she had ever had. The only sexual experience she could compare to the one she just had was the one she had shared with him in college. How did he know her so well?

She wasn't sure why, but she instinctively headed over to his closet. She smelled the shirts and the jeans that were hanging neatly in rows. She had been careful, when she was cleaning out the Vicodin with Wilson, not to betray her attraction to House. Wilson knew, she was sure, about the attraction, but she did not want to talk about it, not with House in God knows what condition at Mayfield. What was she doing, she thought again, with House?

He was not a picket fence kind of guy. She knew this from the moment they first met at college. She had had an English teacher once, who told her to date guys like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights and to marry a guy like Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. House was definitely a Heathcliff, dark and moody and wildly attractive and mysterious. Her English teacher's admonition, in addition to her own professional admissions, kept her attraction under control for all of these years. She thought about her teacher and wondered, what if I want Heathcliff? The truth is if she wanted the white picket fence she could have had it. There were Darcy's along the way, but none she wanted to share her life with, none who made her feel the awe sitting in on a differential with House, or the surprise of listening to House teach a member of his team, or the utter joy of witnessing House pull a fast one on Wilson.

She heard Wilson say something about a hooker. Growing tired of the bickering in the living room, she donned a shirt from the closet, buttoned it hastily, and prepared to open the door and march outside. She wondered, as she opened the door, if two of the Three Musketeers had fallen in love, how would they tell the third?

**Ch. 10: Second Chances**

Cuddy had stomped into the living room so quickly that House did not have the time to anticipate what she would say, or how Wilson would react. Naturally, Wilson was flabbergasted. He fell back on the couch, clearly shaken and nervous, stunned into silence. House himself was surprised by the quickness of her movements and the firmness of her voice. He was upset, at first, that she had the audacity to come out here and tell Wilson in nothing but his baby blue shirt. She was practically naked. More than that, he was upset that she took the secret away from him. He had been planning all kinds of torture for Wilson, and in one quick movement, she had stolen all of his fun.

"Well, then," Wilson stammered. "Finally," he said, as he got up, unable to look either friend in the eye. "I'll call you later House," he finished, as he handed House a ziplock with the wallet, cell phone and keys he had accepted on the day of his admission. "You'll want to charge that," he said nervously as we walked out the door.

Stunned, House closed the door and looked over at Cuddy. "What did you do that for?" he asked, visibly annoyed with her intrusion on his friendship. "I don't know," Cuddy said unapologetically, "he would find out anyway. And besides," Cuddy continued, unbuttoning the shirt, "I have to go home soon." House was in trouble, deep trouble, he knew, because he could not stay mad. The glimpse of her chest as she unbuttoned the shirt excited him instantly, and he followed her back to his room.

This time was even better than the last. Their bodies were perfectly in sync. He was gentle, and forceful and violent, all at the same time. She received, at first, and then she attacked. They kissed and they held each other and they pleasured each other, trying to hold on to their sensual arousals as long as possible. This was more of an exploration than an actual lovemaking. It was as if they were charting their course, determining what makes the other happy, taking mental notes as they enjoyed the moment. When the moment came, it came for both of them at the same time, and then, they were spent. She fell on him softly and kissed his stubbly cheek. He smiled, but the smile turned into a grimace, and she moved off of him gently. He massaged his leg.

Cuddy caressed his shoulder as he continued to massage the leg. She had not asked him about the pain. She had not asked if he wanted a Tylenol even, or if he wanted her to massage it for him. She hadn't asked, he thought, because she knew the answer. She knew he didn't want to talk about the pain, and that is one of the reasons he wanted to kick himself for not jumping her sooner. She knew him and accepted him exactly for the miserable son of a bi*** he was. How didn't he see that before? Did his father really do such a number on him that he thought no one could love him? He pushed his father out as he kept massaging, the pain was abating a bit. Instead, his thoughts turned to Cuddy. She had to go home, he knew, but he didn't want her to. He wanted to have her here in his bed for the rest of the weekend. He had shared Wilson with Amber, but this was going to be harder. He owed it to her to try.

"Cuddy," he looked at her intensely, "you should probably go, Rachel …" He lost his nerve to finish the sentence, but Cuddy had understood his attempt. She rewarded him with a long, luscious kiss, and then she got out of bed and got herself dressed. When she was done arranging her hair and make-up, she folded the blue shirt she had worn and placed it on the nightstand. She seemed to be claiming it as hers, and he liked that. He watched all of this with his hands folded behind his head with the bed sheet half-draped over his privates. She came back for one last kiss.

"House," she said quietly and with as firm a voice as she could muster, "I don't know what the hell we are doing to our professional relationship or our friendship, but this was the best f***ing sex of my life." With that, she was gone.

**Ch. 11: On the Seventh Day**

It was early, very early, in fact, when House decided to call Wilson and ask him to breakfast on Sunday morning. In fact, the sun was still rising when Wilson's phone began to vibrate on his nightstand. House figured Wilson would take anything he could get, at this point, and since he couldn't torture him with suspense about his new relationship with Cuddy, if that is what it indeed was, then he would need to find other ways to torment his best friend.

Wilson arrived, looking quite tired, at around 8 a.m. "House, this had better be good," he said. "This breakfast, this visit, it had better be worth it. I want info.," started Wilson. What Wilson didn't know is that House had a full day planned for them. Sure, it started with breakfast at the corner coffee shop, as he had promised, but it went on from there.

"So, the ketoprofen, it must working," Wilson said quietly as he stuffed the forkful of eggs in his mouth.

"Yeah," House said sarcastically, "it's awesome."

"Really, have you been in a lot of pain, because if you have you are hiding it well, really well."

House finished savoring is last sip of coffee before responding, "Well, I have been distracted by the happy feelings in my loins."

Wilson almost coughed up his breakfast. "No, House, that's not how this is going to be. If you can't have grown up conversations about Cuddy, then don't talk about her at all."

"Oh gawd, Wilson, relax, she's not your mother you know."

"House," Wilson pleaded, more desperately this time, "I spent half of yesterday trying to wipe that half-naked image of her from my mind. I am permanently scarred. That was the shirt she likes, wasn't it?"

"Oh, Wilson, my boy, you have no idea. Apparently, mommy Cuddy likes a lot of things."

Wilson dropped money on the table and got up to leave. "Damnit House, I can't do this. I've wanted you to take this step for so long I can't watch you screw it up."

House got up to chase Wilson down, first checking the cash to be sure he had paid for both of them. Of course, Wilson had. House couldn't believe it. Had he gotten Wilson so used to paying that he never even considered making him pay for once? Not even when he was mad? I am better than I thought, House said to himself.

House caught up to Wilson as he walked down the sidewalk back towards his car and said the magic words. "Really, I need your help. There is some stuff the quack down at Mayfield wanted me to do about closure and other crap like that. Can you take me to visit Kutner and Amber?"

Wilson looked over at his friend in disbelief. He didn't know what to think anymore. He was still the same crude, crass, arrogant son of a bi*** he had always been, but it is as if he had grown a heart. He was actually trying. He opened the passenger door for House and came around to the driver's seat. As he pulled his seat belt on he noticed House was massaging his leg. "I guess, maybe the ketoprofen is not so good."

"Yeah. Not so good. But the physical therapy helps a bit. Four times per week, 60 minute sessions for the rest of my freaking life."

This was the first hint of real misery Wilson had noted since, well, since that last meeting at Mayfield, the one where they cried together. Wilson decided, for once, to let him be. He was entitled to be frustrated. My God, he couldn't believe all of the progress he was making. He must have said something amazing to Cuddy to get her in bed. Yeah, Wilson decided he was going to let this one go. Wilson headed to the mausoleum first, thinking he himself was not ready to see Amber's grave without more preparation. When they arrived, Wilson wasn't sure what House needed to do. They walked over together. House stood near the plaque and quietly touched it. After a few minutes, he turned to Wilson and said, "Let's go."

"That's it? What kind of closure was that?"

"What did you expect, Wilson, for me to talk to him? Shheeez, he's dead!"

"House, I am not taking you to Amber's grave if you are going to stand at it for some twisted fu**off to the field of psychiatry," Wilson yelled as they walked back towards the car. House limped behind him, "Really, Wilson, I wrote his parents a note. I just needed to see the grave site to let him go. Are you happy?"

Wilson thought about this, and believed in House's sincerity. He wasn't lying, either. He had written Kutner's parents a note. He also wrote one to his father, which he sent to his mother as he wanted her to know what he felt. That one he wouldn't tell Wilson about, at least not now. Nobody should have to know what that letter said. But the one to Kutner's parents was just one sentence long: Dear Kutner's Parents, I shouldn't have blamed you, I thought there must be a reason. Gregory House.

Wilson took his time meandering around the cemetery where Amber was buried. House was tempted to harass him into a disabled spot so they could take care of business quickly, but he successfully kept his mouth shut. Finally, Wilson parked, and they made their way around a pond to the site of Amber's grave. Wilson knelt at the site and changed the dead flowers for the fresh daisies he had purchased at the curb. The flowers weren't so dead, House noted, meaning Wilson visited often. He couldn't think of anyone else who would visit cutthroat bi*** on a regular basis.

There was a bench not too far from the grave, and that is where House sat. He looked at Wilson and at the tombstone behind him. He put is cane down and started to work on his leg. He was half afraid the hallucinations would start again, as if he was tempting them with his visit. He wondered if that was why the idiot Dr. Crow had wanted him to visit these two places before going back to work, as some kind of sanity test. He decided, instead of analyzing Crow's looney methods, to try to make peace. For some reason, his subconscious had picked Amber as the representation of his logical, right brain. She was good at it, too. They were a lot a like, he and Amber. His narcissism made him believe this is why Wilson had fallen in love with her. His insecurity made him believe this is why he fired her. One thing he knew for sure, he owed her his life. During the DBS he had been with her on the white bus, and she sent him back to live in misery. What the cutthroat bi*** didn't realize, is that he would one day be capable of finding some happiness in that misery. This story, bi***, isn't a lie. House got up and limped his way back to the car, where he waited for Wilson.

While Wilson and House were sightseeing, Cuddy had turned her entire attention to Rachel on Sunday. They headed to the early Mommy and Me class, and then to the park. She stopped by the grocery store to buy a few items, and then home for a nap. As soon as she got Rachel down to her crib, she sat on her couch with a glass of wine and held her legs to her chest. She wasn't going to call House, not even to see if he was okay, or to see if had made it through the night without pain. She refused to play the part of the needy woman. She wasn't a needy woman. As a matter of fact, if House came over and said he believed they had made a mistake, she would agree and move on. Maybe it would be different if she didn't have Rachel. She knew that being a single mom made some women feel vulnerable. Motherhood have Cuddy the opposite feeling, she felt empowered. It was a bigger high than even running the hospital. She was all this little baby had in the world, and she was doing a pretty good job with her. Sure, House was the love of her life, he had always been, but if it didn't work out, she always had Rachel. Her mind started to drift to the sex, but she quickly decided that rather than fantasize about him, she would turn her attention to the hospital and his transition back to work on Monday. She grabbed the exit report from Mayfield and read it again, this time with her administrator's eyes.

**Ch. 12: Teamwork**

Those doctors who work closely with Dr. House at PPTH were pretty nervous on Monday. They were mostly afraid of the two scenarios they had imagined: he would either return a miserable shell of the miserable man they knew, or he would return very pissed off that he had been forced to detox and would be a bigger a** than usual. Either, way, they knew they were in for one bumpy day.

Cameron had asked one of the clerks at reception to beep her when he came in, so that she and Chase could come up to diagnostics and welcome him back. House was predictably late, and she received notice at around 9:45 a.m. Chase reluctantly followed her back through the halls by diagnostics. They had been married for six weeks now, six beautiful weeks, though their honeymoon and subsequent first days as a married couple were somewhat marred by her worries about House. Chase could hardly believe it, between her dead husband's sperm and House's breakdown, he barely stood a chance.

They beat House to the conference room, where Taub, Foreman and Thirteen were sitting around nervously. They leaned on the credenza, staring at the white board. "Any patients?" Cameron asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Does it look like we have any patients?" Foreman responded, clearly on edge. With that, House burst through the door, limping straight to his desk, not acknowledging the team. He put down his backpack, and turned towards the conference table. "What are you looking at," he said gruffly, "haven't you ever seen a cripple off Vicodin?" he asked. Taub thought quietly to himself, scenario #2.

Unafraid, Cameron walked up to him, with Chase right behind her. "Sorry I missed the big day, Cam," House said, obviously feigning sincerity, "I had a date with the cuckoo's nest that I just couldn't miss."

"Oh, House," Cameron said, close to tears, and she gave him a hug. House was caught off guard, and like most of the Cameron hugs he had suffered in the past six years, he did not return it. He did take the moment to mouth to Chase, "Be careful, chap, she still digs me."

Taub and Thirteen stood up next, and came over to greet him. They tried to talk niceties, but House wouldn't have any of it. He was studying Thirteen for any evidence of the progression of her Huntington's. There was a slight tremor in her right hand, he noticed, but he found no proof of a dramatic deterioration. Foreman was lucky, he thought, he still had more time. Then he turned to Taub and asked him about Eugene Schwartz. Taub smiled, glad that House had remembered. "He is comfortable, receiving palliative treatment for the pancreatic cancer. He is home now, but he'll be back for outpatient chemo on Wednesday." House was pleased that Taub had kept up with Schwarz, he was a nice old geezer, and House made a mental note to visit on Wednesday.

Within minutes, Cameron and Chase had disappeared, back to their respective corners of the hospital, leaving his fellows with him. Foreman got up and announced, "I'm going to the clinic, beep me if we get a patient." He said this with attitude, with so much attitude, in fact, that even Thirteen was startled. She could be mean, the fact that she knew she was dying gave her that freedom, but for Foreman, that was cold. House followed him out and called him on it in the hall.

"Do you have a problem with me?" he demanded.

Foreman turned back."As a matter of fact, I do. We almost lost two patients because of you, House. Two patients almost died, three if you count Schwartz, because you didn't come clean with your problems."

House took a step forward, he was not afraid of this fight. "You have always been so scared you would turn out like me. The irony is, if you were anything like me at all we would not have come close to losing those patients, and you might have noticed that I was having a breakdown. I freaking diagnosed myself, Foreman. So congratulations, you must be so proud to be nothing like me."

Foreman was stunned. He turned and disappeared into the elevator. House turned back towards his office, turned on his amp and started playing some chords. It was almost noon and House had gone through the mail when Wilson showed up at his door to ask him to lunch. "Are you paying?" House asked, raising his eyebrows in his characteristic, exaggerated way. "Sure, what's another charity meal for my best friend."

House was picking at his fries, studying their texture, when Cuddy found him. She sat next to Wilson, and started nagging House almost immediately. "Hello, Wilson," she said, making eye contact, leaving Wilson shrinking a bit in his seat. "For God's sake, Wilson, get over it," she said. "House, you were late today. You can't be late to work, it won't look right."

"But I'm always late. If I were on time it wouldn't look right. People would talk," he said, winking inappropriately. Wilson looked down at his food. He was the one studying the texture of the fries now.

"House, you have to follow the rules. I am your boss."

"I know, I have the scratches on my back to…"

"House, I repeat, I am your boss. You are going to have to deal with that. Now, you have clinic hours to make up for the past six weeks."

"What? Come on, that's ridiculous!" House blasted. "How can you expect me to make up hours for the past six weeks? That's not fair."

"That's not all, you will be teaching a diagnostics class this semester."

"No, I won't," House countered, suddenly tired of her abuse of authority, "oh yeah, good luck with the clinic," he said as he got up from the table and left.

"This isn't going to be easy, you know," Wilson said.

"I never thought it would be easy," Cuddy countered. "It wouldn't be fun if it was.

Two peas in a pod Wilson thought, as he got up and cleared both their trays.

**Ch. 13: Games People Play**

House was livid that Cuddy had tried to pull a power play, and all in front of Wilson. Surely she knew he would push back. Her scene in the cafeteria had awakened in him an overwhelming desire to screw her. Later, he told himself, deciding to screw with her instead. He stopped by his office to grab something from his backpack on the way to his favorite hiding place in the hospital. An exam room in the clinic just wouldn't do. He was sure she would find him there. That would be predictable. Her little scene in front of Wilson had just raised the stakes. No, the regular hiding places would not do.

A couple of hours had passed since their standoff, and House was busy with his GameBoy and his marathon game of Mortal Kombat. This was too easy, he thought, returning the glares of the elderly lady fingering her rosary in the hospital chapel. His beeper went off again, easily the 10th time since the epic battle began on his GameBoy. House shifted his weight, feeling the tingling sensation of the beginning of a cramp, one that would signal more pain. He checked his watch, another hour before his next dose of ketoprofen and then physical therapy at 6. He was hoping he would make it through his first full day of work without a major crisis of pain. He put down the game, careful to pause it since he was close to his all time record, and worked his leg. Just then, he heard the sound of Hanson's MMMBop for the first time in weeks. His adrenaline rushed; he answered it while staring down the old lady. Hanson was proof, as far as he was concerned, that the old lady was wrong about the existence of God. He knew a patient would make the time pass quickly, and help him avoid both Cuddy and pain.

"We have a patient," Foreman's voice boomed from the other end of the line. House turned off his game, grabbed his cane, and told the old lady she could keep praying if she wanted, but he would be busy now, saving a life, all by himself. He walked into the hall with confidence, immediately seeing Cuddy's shapely figure make a mad dash towards him. "Sorry, can't now Mommy, I have a patient," House said with an air of authority.

"No you don't, you moron, I had Foreman call you to smoke you out."

He didn't see that one coming. He thought of the game and the record he gave up. He made a mental note, this time to give Foreman the most demeaning of assignments at his first opportunity. When were his fellows going to learn that while she was the Dean, the fate of their days rested with him?

Looking at her bright blues eyes and the curve or her face, he thought about college and the first time he realized she was a formidable adversary. That's what turned him on so damn much. He recovered quickly, though, and started his assault with a new argument, a rational one. "Don't you think you run the danger of trying so hard to treat me like an employee that you might actually be overdoing it and calling attention to the fact that you are, in reality, treating me differently?"

Cuddy didn't need to give this argument any thought. She had spent most of the evening on Sunday reviewing his exit report and considering that very same notion. "House," she said firmly, not backing down, "every department head in this hospital teaches a class at least every other semester. You haven't taught one in three years. Your paychecks come from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Teaching is a part of the name."

House considered her point, stepped closer and offered, "Okay, one class, but waive the clinic duty for the time I missed."

"Done," Cuddy conceded, with a broad smile, almost too quickly. House realized immediately that she never expected him to make-up clinic duty and only wanted him to teach the class, and he had fallen for it, distracted by his urge to cup his mouth around her right nipple.

She handed him the file with the course materials, and started to walk away. He stared at her a** for maybe too long, he sensed she knew he was looking. When she reached the nurse's station she turned quickly and caught him, as Hanson was starting to sing. House turned back towards his office and answered the call. "We have a 49-year-old male, memory loss, depression, anxiety, chest pain, shortness of breath," Foreman was reading symptoms to House on the phone, and when House walked in to the conference room he noted that Thirteen had been writing them on the board. What a well-oiled machine.

"Sh** ,"House exclaimed, looking at the board. "That's just damn middle age. Tell the patient to buy a Harley and get on with it."

Taub came in, fresh from the initial patient consultation. "He's also suffered from fatigue, fever, joint pain."

"After the Harley he should trade in his 48-year-old-wife for a 22-year-old stripper named Bambi," House continued, convinced this was not an actual sick person.

"There's more," Taub insisted. Thirteen kept scribbling. "He has skin lesions, intermittent mouth sores and alopecia."

Intermittent mouth sores? That is the one symptom that didn't fit with the others. House rested his chin on his cane. Hair loss and skin lesions, also symptoms of age. Mouth sores? That didn't fit. He looked at the board, looked at his fellows, and started the game.

"Lupus."

**Ch. 14: The Differential**

"It's never Lupus, House," Foreman responded. "That's the first thing you taught us."

"Well, look at the board, and you'll see – the diagnosis is clear. Lupus. Start the patient on corticosteroids, and well, time for my nap." House headed towards his couch and put his feet up on the table.

"That's it, without looking at the file, ordering tests or God forbid, seeing the patient, you're treating?" Foreman wasn't sure what was going on. Even for House, this was stupid. "Even if it is Lupus, which we all know it isn't, intravenous corticosteroids can cause severe reactions."

"Okay, you're right, Foreman, then treat with cytoxan. Immunosuppressive drugs are just as effective in treating Lup-"

"House," Foreman interrupted again, "it's not Lupus!"

Taub could see the game coming a mile away. House was having fun with Foreman. He was going to torment him with Lupus; it must be some sort of payback because he allowed Cuddy to use him to lure him out of the chapel. Taub had all of the patience in the world, but he had just met with Peter McCoy and his wife in Intensive Care, where they have spent the last two nights, with another twelve in the hospital before that, and still they had no clear diagnosis. So yes, Taub could let the game go on, the one where Foreman circles around House and House taunts him with Lupus, but instead, he thought he would begin the differential.

"Okay," Taub began, pointing to the top of the board. "Memory loss, depression, anxiety, chest pain, shortness of breath, fatigue, joint pain, skin lesions, intermittent mouth sores and alopecia. GO."

Ready for actual work to begin, Thirteen stated evenly, "PTSD. Has he been under any kind of stress or suffered a traumatic experience?"

"Well," House began, he may have realized he's turning 50, dying, has an old hag for a wife and then met Taub here as his only form of salvation. I'd say that's traumatic."

Taub responded, "Actually, his wife is young, late 20s, and she's beautiful. They didn't report any traumas or changes in the environment."

House looked over at Taub, impressed to see him asserting himself. There was a time, not that long ago, where House's attack would have provoked a reaction. Good for you, House thought, as his eyes went back to the board.

"How was his blood count?" Foreman asked, getting his head in the game. Thirteen picked up the files and said, "Normal, red, platelets, white, all in the normal range."

"What about the history," Thirteen continued, "has he been on prescription medications? Antipsychotics or even high blood pressure meds like hydralazine have been known to cause most of the symptoms on the board with..."

"Nope," Taub answered quickly. "He doesn't even take supplements or vitamins. He is healthy, he eats well, and exercises, he was perfectly fine until two weeks ago when the symptoms began."

Foreman jumped in, "Toxins. Any exposure to…"

"Lupus." House repeated it, again and again for the team. "Lupus. Lupus. Lupus. Lupus. Lupus. If you don't see how all of those symptoms can be caused by Lupus, well then you guys are allowing one silly rule I told you about years ago dictate the course of this patient's life, oh no, I mean death."

"House," Foreman began, looking at him in the eye. "Saying it over and over doesn't make it true. The symptoms may fit, but that's why his doctors upstairs ran the tests. His anti-nuclear tests were negative – it's not autoimmune."

"Well then Dr. Foreman, what do you suggest we do?"

"More tests. We should get a complete blood count to see if there are any changes, we should also add the erythrocyte sedimentation rate test to rule out anything systemic," Foreman responded.

"Kidneys and liver," suggested Thirteen. "Autoimmune goes right for these organs first, we can look for damage with a urinalysis and scans."

He thought they had covered most of the tests they needed for now. He knew, of course, they were requesting these specific tests in order to rule out his theory that the patient, the 49-year-old dude with the young trophy wife, was suffering from Lupus. "Don't forget to check for syphilis," House added, as they were scurrying out the door. Taub took a deep breath, bit his tongue, added it to the consent form, and imagined how he would be able to get this beautiful couple to sign it.

**Ch. 15: Adult Conversations**

House went around to Wilson's office, opened it, as customary, without knocking, and sat on his couch while he finished his consultation. House never minded interrupting Wilson when he was in his office with a patient. He figured, in this office the patient already knew he had cancer; he was unlikely to walk into an emotional scene. Wilson's patients, too, tended to feed off of his positivity. Under Wilson's care even an end-stage liver cancer patient thought there was some chance of survival, or at least, some meaning to the suffering.

Wilson awkwardly finished the consult and walked the patient out the door with assurances he would visit him in oncology during his next chemo session. "You have to stop doing that, House."

"Come on, I haven't done it in six weeks. I thought you'd miss it."

Wilson finished the note about the patient's visit, closed the file and put it in his credenza behind him. "Wow, oncologists have a lot of paperwork," House observed. "House," Wilson quipped, "_doctors_ have a lot of paperwork. Paperwork, I might add, that I think you soon will be doing, so be careful who you mock."

He knew that Wilson was referring to Cuddy's attitude in the cafeteria. This was unchartered territory for him, for them. It was a challenge, with Stacy, but their work worlds were unknown to each other. "Are things different?" Wilson asked, "Working with her, working for her? Has anything changed?"

House checked his watch and realized his patient would be undergoing tests for most of the afternoon. "I've got to go," House said, letting Wilson's question hang in the air.

About an hour and a half later, House stopped in to see Cuddy. She was in her office, reading reports at her desk. House stood by the door, and looked around. "You can come in," Cuddy said, wondering what he was looking at. He looked from the floor to her desk, to the door and back, "House," Cuddy said, realizing what he was thinking, "Come in."

He snapped out of it, closed his eyes tightly, opened them again, and sat across from her desk. "House, why would you think Mr. McCoy has Lupus? You have always-"

House couldn't believe Foreman had already given her his first diagnosis, and apparently, he had added his own editorial opinions as well. "Look, Cuddy, it's my job to diagnose, and yours to assign parking spaces. I haven't asked for dangerous tests, so you have nothing to worry about. There is no liability and he has insurance. Everything is under control. The exit report said I had my faculties, right?"

She hadn't meant to question his judgment, at least not any more than she usually did. "I'm sorry," she offered contritely, "it's just-"

"Cuddy," he said firmly, "for God's sake, don't apologize. You are my boss. I need you to question me."

Cuddy was confused. She had just hurt his feelings by mentioning the Lupus, and now he was mad that she was sorry she had hurt his feelings. This was going to be harder than she thought. Everything seemed fine a little while ago, while they were playing their usual control games, but suddenly, she wasn't so sure.

"I came in to let you know I started physical therapy upstairs today, and rather than keep a regular appointment, I think it would be better if I fit it in as I can while patients undergo tests. That means I might be gone at odd hours, but I'll be available by pager and cell."

Cuddy could not believe that House was having a normal, professional conversation with her. She was suspicious, surprised and also afraid that he had surrendered his spirit. He registered her ambivalence with his effort immediately. Cuddy added, "As long as you make to your class, your office hours, your clinic hours, and yeah, keep saving the lives of those patients everyone else has given up on."

House nodded and left.

After checking in on McCoy and confirming that Taub would keep tabs on him and the results they were waiting on overnight, House went home, took a shower, massaged his leg and took his ketoprofen. He grabbed his helmet and headed over to Cuddy's without calling. When she opened the door he didn't wait for an invitation. He had her pinned to the wall in one quick move. He explored her mouth with intensity, wrapping his tongue around hers and searching the depths of her throat. He kissed her neck hungrily, and went back to her mouth. "House," Cuddy interrupted, breathlessly, as she broke away from him for a moment, "Rachel's not asleep yet."

He turned towards the living room and there was Rachel, smiling in her ridiculous little bouncy thing. He put his head on Cuddy's shoulder in childish sadness, still breathing heavily. He wished he had called.

**Ch: 16: Boy Interrupted**

While House had been at work earlier in the day he had tried to push every dirty thought about Cuddy out of his head. If this relationship was going to work, he knew they had to keep it outside of the hospital. Their regular working relationship was filled with so many challenges that he knew mixing the two would lead to a quick and inevitable end. Because he had pushed those thoughts out at the hospital, he had spent the drive on his bike coming towards her House bringing those thoughts back. He wondered if, when she opened the door, he would get the same rush. He wondered if her touch would still feel like electricity, and if her kiss would immediately make him stir. When he arrived and she did open the door, the answer was clear – he had no choice, really, but to attack.

All of the pent up desire made it difficult for him to wait as she finished Rachel's bath. He was tossing his cane in the air from his reclined position in the couch, wondering, for the 100th time since Friday night, if he really knew what he was doing with Cuddy. She had a baby. Rachel wasn't going anywhere. He was going to have to share. Well, he thought, with another twirl of his cane, at least Cuddy had said that the warm bath before bedtime helps her sleep through the night. There was a light at the end of the tunnel.

Cuddy's cell phone rang, and he could hear her taking care of hospital business while bathing her daughter. My God, he thought, she is amazing. She came out into the hall and covered the receiver, "House," she whispered, "can you come here?"

There was a problem at the hospital. It was Jim from Donor Relations. There was a big donor breakfast meeting tomorrow, and he needed some figures and reports from her office. She had given all of the materials to her secretary, but apparently she had left early, sick with the flu, and the files were nowhere to be found. "It'll take an hour, maybe less, are you sure you'll be okay?"

House's stare went from Cuddy, to the demon baby sitting in the tub, back to Cuddy, then to Cuddy's chest. "Yeah, just hurry back." She kissed him softly and left before she changed her mind about leaving him with Rachel.

Wilson would laugh his a$$ off if he saw me now, House thought. He half-entertained calling him over but decided against it. While it would be fun, he didn't want to give the impression that he needed help. "Just you and me kid," he said to Rachel as he picked her up out of the tub.

He dried her up, put on her diaper and the pajamas that Cuddy had left out for him. He put her in the crib and waited for her to go to sleep. She didn't. Instead, she started to fuss. House patted her on the back, and told her politely that it was time for all of the good and intelligent babies in the world to go o sleep so their mommies and daddies could have wild sex. This did not seem to move the baby into compliance. Her fussing soon became piercing cries.

He carried her out of the crib and sat in the rocker with her, grabbing the blanket that was lying on the changing table. He wrapped her up in the blanket, and started humming some Rolling Stones. She stopped crying almost instantly, but still, she did not look sleepy. Her eyes were open wide, and her lips formed a smile. Wow, House thought to himself, she looks nothing like Cuddy. That is just weird.

He put her on the floor and she crawled over to some toys by the side of the crib. House was bored. He wondered why Cuddy needed a baby so much – they are cute, if you like that kind of thing – but they are so needy. Rachel fussed again when she couldn't reach the giraffe on the shelf, and House limped over and held it over her. She tried to reach up, but he moved it to her left. She giggled, and tried to grab it, but then he moved it to her right. She giggled again, this time louder. Interesting, he thought, and gave her the giraffe. He sat on the floor, observing the way she played. She was naturally curious. She was generally joyful, but knew how to communicate when she wanted something or if she had a complaint. She had started to whine a bit, when he remembered something about a bottle in the fridge. As he warmed up the bottle he wondered if by saying the bath helps her sleep she really meant the bath will keep her up all night.

When Cuddy arrived about 90 minutes later, the house was dark and quiet. She was apprehensive, afraid, actually, of what she would find. She was sure Rachel was alright since House hadn't called with any emergencies. But still, she was worried. Not so much about Rachel, but more about House. What if these 90 minutes lead him to conclude he wants nothing to do with babies? What if these 90 minutes put a strain on their relationship that it would not be able to bear?

She checked on Rachel first, finding her asleep in her crib. She had left an ounce in her bottle, which she could see House left for her on the changing table, next to several wet diapers. She considered this evidence that he had cared for her, or at least, met her needs. That was something, she thought. She didn't need him to be her father. No, that wasn't what she needed at all. Cuddy decided as she slipped into her room and took off her clothes, that all she needed was for House to be hers, and for him to accept Rachel and her presence in her life. She couldn't even imagine needing more. House was sleeping when she lifted the covers and joined him in bed, or so she thought. If he was sleeping, he was a light sleeper, because as soon as she put her head on her pillow the festivities began.

**Ch. 17: Differing Differentials**

The next morning, House made the coffee while Cuddy was in the shower. He was in a rush, hoping to leave before Theresa arrived. The nanny thing was awkward for him, he wasn't sure why. He felt she was judging him, the crippled psycho sleeping with sweet baby Rachel's mother. As he finished his coffee, his eyes drifted to Rachel and the way she was picking at her Cheerios. Sometimes she would grab one with her right hand, sometimes with her left. He had studied, of course, how children can be ambidextrous through much of their childhood, but had never really seen it like this, up close. He kept watching, looking some clue that he preferred either her right hand or her left – but nothing. He would try to remember to check on this later.

As Cuddy finally emerged from the bedroom he headed hurriedly towards her to let her know he was off. On his bike, House felt free. He thought about Cuddy and the pleasures he has felt over the last few days. He thought about how seemingly easy it was to love her like this. Why had he waited this long? Had it really taken a mental breakdown and a team of doctors for him to admit these feelings he has felt for over 20 years? He rode and rode, feeling the wind on his face. He loved his motorcycle. He loved feeling the speed of it. It was his sport, a sport that allowed him to feel a rush without adding to the pain in his leg. It was an equalizer of sorts. He loved his bike so much, actually, that he rode it for quite some time. By the time he had parked in his spot at PPTH he was 45 minutes late for work. He was relieved to remember his boss had a donor meeting this morning and would be too busy to notice.

Cuddy had been working for over an hour, preparing the last of the financial statements for the donor meeting. If she had not come in last night, Jim wouldn't have gotten his own presentation together in time. It was a hectic morning, complicated by the fact that her assistant was out sick. The clinic's administrative assistant, Judy, came in to help Cuddy make the final preparations. As she ran out of Cuddy's office with the spreadsheets she needed to copy, she warned Cuddy she noted a strange smell. Cuddy had noticed it too, but had not found the moment to investigate. Jim came in to check the final figures, and was relieved to see everything was in order. He also told Cuddy about the strange smell. Cuddy checked her skirt and her top for any evidence of Rachel puke, but there was nothing. She went to grab a lipstick out of her purse for a quick touch up before the meeting, and she ran into something else, something much different. Without looking at it, she knew what it was, and she understood the smell her staff had been warning her about. Inside her purse, next to her designer wallet and $45 lipstick, House had placed a soiled diaper. Cuddy pulled it out and tossed it in the trash can under her desk. She considered her options: added clinic duties, lesson plan requests for his class, rejecting his next request for a dangerous test…but she opted to keep her revenge personal.

House entered his office to find his team already assembled and in a heated discussion. He checked the board and it looked exactly as it did when he left the night before.

"There are at least 20 common diseases that can cause elevated proteins in the urine," Foreman said, almost chastising Taub. "But how many of those can account for all of the symptoms?" Taub challenged heatedly.

"Oh, oh," House chimed in, immediately understanding the nuance of their argument. "I get it, in the role of the handsome Dr. Chase today, we have the not-so-handsome Dr. Taub." Foreman and Thirteen exchanged a look.

"You can call me a suck-up if you want," Taub responded, "but I have been here all night. I've checked the results. The protein levels, the inflammation in his kidneys and liver, the fast rate of sedimentation of the erythrocytes…I think you got lucky House because it **is** Lupus. It has to be."

Thirteen jumped in, almost too eagerly defending Foreman's assertions. "The antinuclear antibody test was negative. That means his immune system is fine. The cbc is normal. That means his immune system is fine."

House was notably silent. He had turned back to the board. "Taub, there is no such thing as luck. Either its Lupus or it isn't, but in either case, luck has nothing to do with it. And Foreman, for God's sake, make her challenge you, not defend you. This differential is soooo booooooring."

First Taub's beeper went off, then Foreman's, and the three of them were heading out the door when the third one went off. House called out after them: "Check back in after you restart his heart so we can finish the differential!"

They were back in 20 minutes, and House was sitting on the table still staring at the board. "How'd you know it was his heart?" Taub asked, throwing himself in a chair. "Just lucky, I guess," House responded sarcastically. "Pericardial effusion," Thirteen added to the list on the board.

"Where's Foreman?" House asked, keeping his eyes on Thirteen.

"Scanning his brain – Mrs. McCoy said his headaches were worse overnight, and we want to rule out anything neurological since he already had memory and behavioral changes." She added an upward arrow and headaches to the board. House shot a glare over at Taub, who sank in his chair – "That is unlucky for you, Dr. Taub, missing a symptom you should have added to the board."

"Thirteen, go add an ECG to the list. If he had an effusion, he could be having a rhythm problem too. We don't want him to die of a massive heart attack while I wait for you idiots to confirm my diagnosis." He turned to Taub, "You, go home, make love to your wife if she'll have you, and come back when you're rested and can be of some use."

Taub wasn't sure why House had sent him home, or why he was being so nice to him. As he and Thirteen jumped into the elevator together, she turned to him and said nonchalantly, "Maybe the rumors are true and he had electroshock therapy." She was off at the next stop to find Foreman and order the tests. Taub went on home, still wondering what had just happened.

House had even surprised himself with the kindness. He went over to Wilson's to sulk. "So he didn't report the headache, and you sent him home to make love to his wife?"

"Yeah. Old House would have fired him on the spot. I am losing it. I don't know if it's all the incredible sex, or the damn therapy that softened me up. What the hell was that? I was nice."

Wilson thought about this for a moment. He had to be careful. He had to choose his words. He remembered after the bike accident, how he had made a big deal about House visiting a psychiatrist in New York. He stopped going immediately, insisting it wasn't working. Wilson had thought about that while House was at Mayfield. He wondered, if he hadn't embarrassed him with it, and if House had kept seeking help – maybe the breakdown could have been avoided. Wilson knew, from now on, to be careful with his words. House was definitely more sensitive than he looked.

"Old House wouldn't have fired him for that. Old House didn't fire Chase when he failed to ask a question, a basic question, which got a patient killed." House didn't seem convinced, so Wilson continued. "Old House would have mocked Taub and tortured him so he wouldn't make that mistake again. Is that what new House plans to do?"

House's serious look finally softened, and Wilson knew he had made his point.

"Lupus."

"Your patient has Lupus? I thought it's never-"

"For fu***'s sake," House exclaimed. He put is head in his hands, wiped his eyes, and tried again, more patiently. "I diagnosed Lupus for fun, to irritate Foreman. But I am starting to think I was right. How lucky is that?"

"Speaking of luck, how are things with Cuddy?"

"I came twice last night-"

"House, I mean the relationship," Wilson said, exasperated with House's insistence on divulging details. Wilson didn't push for more, though, because he realized House had been massaging his leg. He had been doing it for a couple of minutes already. "Is it bad, the pain?"

"Pain, Wilson," House said, as he grabbed his cane and rose slowly to go, "is always bad."

**Ch. 18: The Rules**

House was in the clinic, working on his 3rd vaginal smear of the morning. He had decided to get his weekly hours over with since the results on McCoy weren't back yet and he felt a tad guilty about the dirty diaper. At least Cuddy wouldn't be able to complain about his clinic hours.

As he reminded his ignorant-looking young patient about the benefits of safe sex, Thirteen opened the door and began, "ECG showed his rhythms were all over the place – Chase is putting in a pacemaker."

"Excuse me," House said to his patient, "You can get dressed while you wait for results." He tossed a rubber glove at her adding, "Just in case an errant penis comes your way unprotected while I'm gone." He walked into the hall with Thirteen, looking at the file and the new results of their testing. "The rhythms are irregular, but no inflammation. Why?"

"Because," Thirteen said, slowly, with a tone of growing exasperation, "Lupus is a chronic inflammatory disease and he doesn't have Lupus."

"Or he does, and something else is preventing the inflammation in the heart muscle." He looked back at his exam room, and asked, "What about syphilis?"

"We haven't run it. - House, you haven't met him or his wife – they aren't lying. They are the perfect couple, no cheating…"

"Idiot!" House exclaimed, "I didn't say he had syphilis, I want the test. It will tell us if he has anti-phospholipid antibodies in his blood."

Thirteen realized their mistake in passing up on the test. Finding anti-phospholipid antibodies would prove he had Lupus, if that is what he had. "We'll run the test, House, but still, systemic Lupus is more common in women than men, and-"

"Call me when you have the results."

House found Wilson in the cafeteria. As customary, he sat at this table, grabbed ½ his sandwich and took a bite. "It's a wonder you were able to feed yourself at Mayfield," Wilson sniped. He was studying House, looking for clues that the pain was becoming unmanageable. House wasn't giving anything away.

"So, do you still think its Lupus?"

"It is until someone can prove it isn't, or until he dies. Whichever comes first."

Every snarky House comment brought Wilson more joy and reassurance that House was okay, that House was House. This was only his second day back at work, and he was working a case, working the clinic, terrorizing his fellows and stealing his lunch. All seemed right with the world.

"So, about Cuddy," Wilson began, "is it serious?"

"As serious as people can be when they are riding each other into oblivion."

Rather than beg House to stop talking about the sex, he decided to ignore him. New strategy. "I mean, have you talked about your relationship, you know, set parameters?"

"Parameters? Nope, we are not your typical parameters type of couple. Too much action, really, to bother with geometry."

Wilson was going to say something but stopped himself. "What?" House wanted to know.

"Nothing," Wilson responded, grabbing a french fry.

"Spill it. Whatever ridiculous thought you just had, you are going to hold it and hold it and eventually tell me anyways, and when you do it will sound just as ridiculous as it is going to sound to me now, so spare us the drama and spill it."

"I was going to ask, you know, if your relationship is exclusive."

"You mean did I ask her to go steady and giver her my class ring?" House scoffed.

"Well,-"

"I did pin her, if pinning counts."

"House, it's a normal question. You need to consider it."

House humored his friend for a moment. "Wilson, you may not be aware of this, but so far in my life I have managed one five-year relationship with a woman. Before that, a series of terrible one-night stands. After that, a series of business transactions. Starting this relationship with Cuddy took me 20 years – do you really think I'll just meet a cute blonde in the lobby and ask her out to dinner?"

Wilson, got up, checking his watch. "I have to go to a consult, but, for the record, I was more worried about her than you."

House left the cafeteria with an uneasy feeling. Rather than take the west elevators up to his office, he went over to the main lobby elevators, peeking in the clinic to see if she was there. Cuddy was standing by the nurse's station, easily engaging in conversation with the nurses and doctors. He took his uneasy feeling up to his office where Foreman and Thirteen where waiting for him. Taub came in at his heels.

"His heart is beating regularly again, and the rest of the symptoms are pretty stable. The scan showed no masses in his brain. But the skin lesions are worse."

"You were right about the syphilis – it did give us a positive," added Thirteen.

House said, "It's not the positive that matters, we need a false-positive. Check the wife."

The beepers started going off again, first one, then the other, and finally, the third. This time House followed them out towards the patient's room. Mr. McCoy was screaming in pain. House thought, as he entered the room, that Taub was right, his wife was beautiful. "My name is Dr. House," House yelled, over his screams. "We got a positive result on your syphilis test – we need to confirm if it is a false positive before we start treatment. Have you had sex in the last six months with anyone but your wife?" House had asked this question in a very loud voice, so the patient could hear it over his own noise. Everyone in the room seemed to shrink in disbelief, and the patient, writhing in pain, looked genuinely offended. Foreman and Thirteen tried to subdue him, but as Foreman grabbed his shoulders to hold him down, he heard a crack and felt a snap. There was more screaming. "I think he just broke his clavicle."

"Give him something for the pain," House said to Foreman. He turned to Taub – "Avascular necrosis – when he settles down, run x-rays on his hips and chest and keep him sedated before he shatters every bone in his body." He turned to the wife, "Sorry, beautiful, I am sure you love your husband very much, but we need to test you for syphilis." He asked Thirteen to complete the test and he headed towards rehab.

Ever since lunch with Wilson a feeling of insecurity was sweeping over him. Wilson was right. Cuddy had always been looking for Mr. Right. She had dated men from the office, wealthy donors, doctors, she had even tried meeting men on-line. If anyone was likely to stray, or even to want to keep an open relationship, it was her. And what if she did? He couldn't imagine her with anyone but him. He just couldn't. They were so good together. Yet, she had dated many buffoons who weren't worthy and whom he couldn't imagine her with either.

He confessed to the physical therapist that the pain was getting worse, and returning sooner after each dose. The ketoprofen's temporary magic seemed to be wearing off. His therapist gave him a strong massage, and really pushed the tightness out of his muscles. He thought he might make it through the rest of the day.

Before heading back towards his office, he stopped in to see Cuddy. He came in and closed the door behind him. Seeing that she was on the phone, we waited by the door, making awkward eye contact. "Yes, don't worry, I'll take care of it Mr. Smithe, I'll see you tomorrow." She put the phone back on the receiver. "What?"

"We need to talk."

"House, I am not kidding, I need you to cover that diagnostics class. I can't-"

"Not about the class, about us."

Cuddy stayed at her chair, behind her desk. House looked so cute, so vulnerable, that she decided she needed the desk for protection. If she could just stay behind the desk, she thought.

"What is there to talk about?" Cuddy asked.

"Rules."

"Rules?"

"Yes, rules."

"Like what? Not wearing panties on casual Fridays?" Cuddy asked, opening her eyes wider and grinning suspiciously.

"No," House replied, slowly, as if he were reaching for something, but he wasn't sure what. "Like about dating other people."

"About dating them or not dating them?" Cuddy asked slowly, her grin growing wider.

Suddenly, House's eyes went from her radiant smile to her purse hanging on the coat hook behind her. It all made sense.

"You sent Wilson after me to get me all twisted on parameters and rules?"

"You put a dirty diaper in my purse, knowing I had an important donor meeting."

"You left me hot for you, crazed out of my mind, taking care of Rachel…by the way, she wasn't sleepy!"

"You…you did your clinic hours," Cuddy softened. She stood up and started to come around her desk.

"How was the meeting?" House asked, trying to keep his voice level. He was trying, with every bit of will power left in his body, to not jump her. He wanted to, he wanted to badly.

"Productive," Cuddy answered. "We got the donation."

"Well, I'll see you later. I have to check on my patient." He was halfway out the door when he added, "By the way, have you noticed that Rachel is completely ambidextrous? Keep an eye on that – there's a correlation between ambidextrous children and genius-level IQs." House left quickly, without looking back.

He didn't have to look back. He knew he had landed the line, and Cuddy would be putty in his hands tonight.

**Ch. 19: Not Lupus**

By the time House arrived back at his office he was practically floating on air. He couldn't believe his relationship with Cuddy was moving along so well. They were managing to keep things professional at work - they kept pushing each other in that unique way they have done for the past 20 years, and for the first time in a horribly long time, he opened the glass door to his office confident that he would be getting some tonight.

"The wife is negative for syphilis," Taub reported as House limped to the table.

House thought for a moment, reviewing the board for what seemed the 50th time that afternoon. "He won't admit an affair? Maybe an old one, years ago?"

"No – House, you saw them," Taub interjected.

Yeah, I saw them, House thought to himself. "I'll bet a year ago none of your friends would have guessed you stepped out on your wife with that nurse."

Taub looked back at the board. "In any case, he says he didn't, giving him the false positive that narrows us down to Lupus."

"Not so fast, if he has it, why doesn't she?" House asked.

Taub remembered the answer. "They use condoms for birth control – she has a family history of cancer and…"

"Okay," House said, pleased with Taub's history. "Oh," added Thirteen, "if it is Lupus and it's a false positive, he couldn't give her the syphilis, right?"

As they considered the board, Foreman came in – "We still haven't ruled out sarcoidosis."

"The treatment for sarcoidosis is interferon. If we give it to him and he has Lupus, he's dead. If we give him corticosteroids for Lupus and its sarcoidosis, he's dead," said Taub soberly.

"And if we sit around here and keep talking about it…ding ding ding – He's dead." House needed a change of scenery. McCoy was his first patient in over six weeks – and his condition was deteriorating quickly. House had been through enough differentials with his team, though, to understand when he knows all he is going to know. They all had executed their jobs – giving him the information, conducting the tests, reviving the patient and administering care. They had even, he thought, as he walked down the hall, limping pretty heavily, consoled the wife tenderly. That's what they did. There were no new pieces missing for this puzzle, all that was left was for him to put it together. It was time for him to get it, to have his epiphany and to save the patient. That's what he did.

The problem was, the epiphany, it wasn't happening. He had no idea where to begin. The one thing he seemed to be sure of is the opposite of the thing he was sure of just 24 hours before – whatever McCoy had, it wasn't Lupus.

He found himself in McCoy's room. The patient was resting comfortably, sedated to prevent further injury to himself. House studied him carefully, so carefully, in fact, that he didn't notice his wife when she entered the room. "Where's Dr. Taub?" she asked reservedly, clearly holding a grudge for House's attitude earlier.

"I am in charge, and if you want your husband to live, you are going to have to forget that you're mad at me and think about anything, anything at all, that has changed in your lives in the past few months." He waited.

Mrs. McCoy was disarmed. She sat in the chair by the bed, looking at her husband tearfully, and began, "I don't know. Everything is a blur."

"Think."

"Everything is the same – our jobs, our home – my mother-in-law moved in with use about six months ago, but that wouldn't-"

"Typically it's the hot young wives who have that allergy, not the momma's boys. Why did she move in?"

Mrs. McCoy looked at her husband again, wiped her eyes, then looked back at House. "She is in her 60s and was forced to retire – her arthritis is getting to be pretty severe and-"

"Arthritis?" House turned to leave the room, then looked at Mrs. McCoy again, appreciating her good looks one last time. "I have bad news, Mrs. McCoy – your husband will be just fine, but he probably cheated on you, probably his secretary, you know, mid-life crisis and all – the syphilis was not a false positive."

Mrs. McCoy turned to her husband again, her sad and tearful gaze turning intensely angry.

House charged into the office – ready to complete the puzzle.

"Check his enzymes," he said, nonchalantly, confident in his new diagnosis.

Thirteen looked at the chart – "Cardiac enzymes are-"

"Did I say cardiac? Did anyone hear me say cardiac? Did the word cardiac come out of my mouth? Run a thorough enzyme test, get a marrow biopsy if you have to."

"Are you looking for lymphoma, because-"

"No Taub, I'm not looking for lymphoma. I'm looking for Gaucher's disease, since that's the one he actually has."

"Gaucher's?" Foreman repeated.

"It's a lipid storage disorder, and its chronic, causing avascular necrosis and most of those symp-"

"House, we went to medical school, you don't need to explain Gaucher's, but it goes to the spleen first, then the lungs and-"

Taub jumped in, "He had a spleenectomy a couple of years ago-" and House finished his thought, "leading the disease to progress through his lungs, heart, central nervous system, and so on."

House continued, "If you had conducted a solid patient history, you would have learned that Mommy Dearest, _his_ mother, moved in with them a few months ago because her _arthritis_ had gotten so bad she could hardly get out of bed."

"It's genetic," Foreman said, locking eyes with House. He didn't know how, but House had solved it again. He might be an a$$, but Foreman was still learning from him.

All three fellows ran out of the room with a purpose, ready to test, diagnose and treat.

As House left the office later that day, he thought about Cuddy, he thought about the patient he had just saved, and he believed, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he could be happy. He smiled, and hoped nobody had noticed.

**Ch. 20: Pain Hurts**

Back in his apartment later that evening, House was still on his high from the diagnosis and the turn of events in his life since his discharge from Mayfield. He took a hot bath to alleviate the leg pain, and maybe even to fantasize a bit about Cuddy. He was not going to visit today – he had a feeling that if he waited long enough, she would show up on his doorstep ready to play. He wasn't sure why, he just thought it was her turn to make the move, and he trusted her to know this.

He thought about his life over the past few years – the blur of recriminations, regrets and desperation that marked the end of his relationship with Stacy, and the physical pain that replaced all of those feelings after she left. He lost so much in the span of that month after the infarction.

No matter what anyone told him, he was not ready to believe it until Mayfield – it was the near loss of his mind that allowed him to see it – that his addiction to Vicodin had little to do with the actual pain in his leg. The Vicodin was relieving all of his pain – emotional too – and because it was, it had been keeping him from dealing with the causes of that pain. He had dealt with some at Mayfield. He was dealing with others now. Being open and honest with Cuddy and Wilson, those were big steps.

House had often been impressed with himself over a clever diagnosis, or even a witty remark or ingenious practical joke – he was, as a matter of fact, impressed with himself often. As he got out of the tub, carefully holding on to the handles he added to the bathroom when he moved in, he wondered if the feeling that he felt at the pit of his stomach was what people felt when they were proud of themselves. There is a big difference, he thought, from being impressed with yourself to being proud of yourself. After the bath he took his ketoprofen, massaged his leg, and looked through the mail as he waited for Cuddy. He was sure she was about to knock on his door.

He noted a handwritten envelope nestled in between a couple of bills. It sent a chill through his body. He recognized the handwriting. There was no mistaking it. The envelope, the one with his name and address written in neat cursive letters, the one with the special patriotic USA stamp, was from his mother – return address to Blythe House in Kentucky.

House had the sudden urge to break something. If he had been holding a phone he would have slammed it onto the cradle. If he had been next to an open door, he would have shut it as hard as possible. He paced around the room, limping, suddenly aware of the pain again. He shouldn't be surprised that she wrote to him – he had written to her first – from Mayfield. Closure and all of that sh**.

What made him mad is that she had intruded on his perfect day – his happy day. He had even felt proud of himself – and there was a letter from his mother, replacing the possibility of happiness with bitter memories. He wouldn't need to open it – he knew what it would say. She would defend his father, or the jerk who called himself his father, and she would be sure to defend herself for those things that happened to her son under her roof.

He served himself one glass of Scotch and downed it in one gulp. He served another, and walked with it, and the bottle, to the piano. He placed the bottle and glass on the piano, and the envelope too, and as if the envelope were his sheet music, he began to play. Everything poured out in the music. He replayed scattered scenes from his childhood – the ice baths, the cold words, the silence, the look of bitter disappointment – all of it came back, and it came out in the music. The notes were intense and melancholic.

He didn't answer the phone when Cuddy called. He was either enthralled by the music or the bottle of Scotch. He didn't hear her when she knocked on the door either. He didn't even notice when she used his spare key, the one under the mat, to get in his place. Cuddy knew something terrible had happened from the bloodshot look of his eyes. She noted the bottle of Scotch on the piano and comforted herself with the thought that at least it was half-full. Immediately she feared the worst: back to Vicodin, back to hallucinations or delusions. He was still playing the piano, though, and while he had yet to look at her, she was sure he felt her presence there.

She came closer, her heart beating quickly, afraid that whatever happened next would put an end to the joy of the past few days. She was silent, listening to him play the piano, looking for clues. He stopped, played an errant and loud chord in frustration, and downed what was left in his glass. Still, without making eye contact, he held out his hand to her. Cuddy grabbed it gratefully, she wanted to help. She wanted to be there with him when the misery crept in. He pulled her over to him on the piano bench and grabbed her right thigh, pulling her over him so she was straddling him.

He was looking at her now. She could see the pain in his eyes, and he could see the concern in hers. They both remember seeing those looks from each other before –they both thought of that last day in her office when House realized he had suffered a delusion. Pain and concern, that is what they saw in each other on that dreadful last day, and that is what they saw in each other now. He kissed her; it was a long, deep, passionate kiss. He pulled off her blouse and unsnapped her bra, feeling her breasts and licking her neck. Cuddy responded nearly as quickly by lifting her skirt and unzipping his pants, all while kissing him desperately, even biting his lip. She arched her back over the keys as he continued to feel her breasts, letting some random notes hit in cacophony. The sound of their pleasure was soon added to the sound of those last notes. It was violent, and it was over almost as quickly as it had begun. House hugged her, holding his face on her chest for some time, as she sat on him in the same position they had been in before. "I can't do this," he finally said, letting the words drop painfully on her lap.

Cuddy got up, pulled her skirt in place and put on her top. She sat on the piano bench facing in the opposite direction from House. "What do you mean you can't do this? You just did it, and quite well."

House got up, adjusted his zipper, and threw himself on the couch. He was stretched out, leaving Cuddy no room to be close to him. He hugged the cushion and looked up at the ceiling. "You should leave." He wasn't looking at her when he said it. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to see if he had.

Cuddy was smart enough to know that there was a reason for whatever House was doing right now. While House was at Mayfield she had thought about the last few months and all of their missed opportunities. She knew that over-reacting to him now would mean the end of this relationship, or whatever it was. Something had happened, he had suffered some setback, and rather than react emotionally to whatever he said, she was going to have to be patient. She was going to have to show House that she wasn't Stacy – she was not going to walk away from him. She was going to have to brace herself for the storm. She served herself a bit of the Scotch and took a swig. She didn't move, and she didn't speak.

"I can't do this, Cuddy, I can't. You should leave."

Cuddy fought back the tears and turned back to the piano and saw it. She saw the letter, she saw the return address. She understood the change in House, and she realized, to her relief, that the return of the darkness and misery had nothing to do with her or with them.

"What can't you do?" she said, trying to keep her voice steady. The last thing she wanted to do was cry. She did not want to cry. He needed her to be strong. He needed to know she was strong – she understood that.

"I can't be the dutiful boyfriend, the father, I can't be the man you need me to be – I can't-"

"Where is my list of demands?" Cuddy countered quietly.

"What?"

"My list of demands, where is it?" Her voice grew louder and more forceful, "You seem to think you can't be the man I need you to be – well, where in the hell did you get the idea that I need you to be anything?"

House thought about this. "You have a baby, Cuddy, a beautiful little girl who deserves a father. You – you deserve that guy who will put on a tux and take you to the hospital benefits and not embarrass you. A guy who makes you happy, not one who makes you worry."

"House," Cuddy said softly, "you are such an idiot. I love you – not the idea of some guy, some role – I love you, I have always loved you."

House sat up, massaging his leg again, making room for Cuddy to sit next to him. She did.

"Wilson was wrong - I don't want to be miserable," he said softly, putting his head on her shoulder. "And I don't want you to leave."

**Ch. 21: Lost in Translations**

Cuddy sat next to House, letting him rest his head on her shoulder. They were silent. She tried not to move, not to even flinch a little bit. She felt this overwhelming need to show him, to prove to him, that she wouldn't leave. The problem was, of course, that she had to leave. She had asked Teresa to stay a couple of extra hours, and Cuddy knew the clock was ticking.

Still, she understood that House needed her - she may not have understood it in her office the day he snapped at her about Rachel, the day he thought he had asked her for help, but she understood it now, and she was not about to let him down. This was her chance to make it up to him. "I told you I needed you," House later told her he had said. Well, he didn't say it then, and he didn't say it now, not in so many words, but today she finally began to understand his language. In House's language, "I think you should leave" means "I need you to stay." In his language, "I can't do this" means "Please, love me unconditionally." It was as easy as that. If only she had known this before.

Cuddy kissed his head softly, thinking, wondering really, what had caused House to feel this sudden loss of security. He had seemed stronger than she had ever seen him, the strongest she has seen him since before the infarction really, and still, it was all gone so quickly. She thought about Stacy and the end of their relationship. House had fallen apart entirely. He had pushed Stacy away, and giving her almost no choice but to leave, and when she had, he was actually surprised. If Wilson hadn't been there, Cuddy thought, House wouldn't be here now. But somehow, she didn't think this started with Stacy. No, the envelope still sitting on the piano certainly contained all of the answers. She hoped House would share it with her, but she knew she wouldn't ask.

She stroked his hand gently and stood up, heading towards the kitchen. She started opening cupboards and cabinets, and then the fridge, surveying House's food situation. She would have to leave soon, but she thought that nurturing him, taking care of him somehow before she left, might be just what he needed. "Do you want a bowl of cereal?" she called out to him in the living room.

"A bowl of cereal?" House shot back. "Wilson was a better roommate than that, Cuddy. At least he made chicken primavera."

"Well, I am not your roommate House. If I was, there would be actual fruits and vegetables in your kitchen." It came back to her now. She had pushed so much of that last painful day out of her mind, that she had allowed herself to forget this - "Maybe we should move in together." She shuddered now, thinking of her reaction that day. She had laughed in anger and fired him. If only she had understood his language before. She didn't know if she would always be able to live like this, constantly translating, but for now, she was happy to do it, happy to be the strong one who understands what it will take to make this relationship work.

She served the bowl of cereal and brought it over to him on the couch. She picked up the bottle of Scotch, put it away and washed his glass, putting it back in the cupboard. When she got back to the living room, he was looking at her pensively. "Cuddy, thank-"

"I have to go. Teresa-"

"I know. I just want you to know," he paused, finding it difficult to finish his sentence. He swallowed hard. He wanted to tell her everything - about his childhood, his father, the painful memories - he wanted to tell her everything, but the words died in his throat before they came out. "I'm sorry."

He stood up, walking her to the door. She turned and looked at him carefully, "House, I get it - it's okay. Just know I am here." She leaned up to give him a quick hug, but he did not let her go. He held her tightly, desperately even. She felt the change, the hug going from intimate love and support to electricity and lust. His hands moved up and down her back, but she pushed him back, kissed him hard on the lips, and told him she would see him tomorrow.

After Cuddy left, he finished his cereal and went to bed thinking Lou Gehrig was wrong, he was the luckiest man in the world.

**Ch. 22: Needs and Wants**

The envelope remained unopened and on the piano all night. It wasn't until the morning that House decided to open it. He knew he should have shared it with Cuddy last night. She was there, ready for him to open up about this last thing - this last remaining issue that had defined so much of his life, so much of his misery. He had decided not to do it, not to share it, not yet. He knew, of course, that he would, he just wasn't ready yet. He did not want her to worry, or to feel sorry for him, and more than anything, he was afraid it would take too much effort. No, he wasn't ready to share this with her yet, and as he thought about the things she said last night, he was so grateful that she understood that.

He brushed his teeth and got dressed methodically, dreading what he knew he would do when he left his room. Finally ready, he grabbed his cane and walked out to the kitchen, where he served himself a glass of orange juice. He sat on the piano bench and played a few notes from the Stones, then he grabbed the envelope and opened it.

It had been a long time since he had read his mother's writing. He was comforted by the familiar handwriting. He read it.

_Greg-_

_I am so sorry, my dear, for all of the suffering you have had to endure. I just finished talking to James, what a good friend you have in him. After receiving your letter I was so desperately scared for you and your health that I called him. He told me you would be released soon, and that you were feeling better, and that I shouldn't visit. I hope you forgive me for not visiting - I just didn't think I could handle seeing you there._

_As for your letter, I don't know what to say. You are right, I suppose, is where I should start. I have made so many mistakes, Greg - big ones I know - but I want you to know, nothing about it was easy for me. That summer your father didn't talk to you, those nights you slept in the yard or were sent to bed without dinner, those awful ice baths - all of it - each time he hurt you a part of me died._

_I know, right now, none of this matters. It is what I did at the time that matters, and what I did at the time was accept the way he treated you. I was afraid, Greg. I was afraid of losing him. He was a good man. He was respected in the community. I was not as strong as you were, as strong as you are. I'm still not._

_I asked you to speak at his funeral. After everything that had happened, I still cared more about appearances than about you and your feelings. I am especially sorry for that, Greg. I shouldn't have put you in that position._

_You are right, of course, about your biological father. I shouldn't be surprised that you knew all along. I want you to know I was only unfaithful that one time, the time you were conceived. I was so ashamed. Of course, I did love him, your biological father, but I knew it was wrong, and so did he. I suppose knowing you weren't John's son affected me as much as it did him - sometimes when I saw you I saw my shame. That helped me allow him to hurt you. It was never about you, Greg, but I suppose you know that now. He was hurting you in order to hurt me._

_Well, I have done an excellent job, I think, of screwing things up. The biggest regret of my life is my silence for all of those years. For that I am truly sorry._

_I don't know if you can forgive me, I don't think anyone would blame you if you didn't. I love you, son, and I'm sorry._

_Mom_

House read it over and over again. Okay, she didn't defend his bas***** father, and she took responsibility. She loved his biological father and she sacrificed that for her life with John the bast****. She was suffering now, thinking of the suffering she had allowed. He turned back to the piano, and played those notes again, the one's from the Rolling Stones. This song had kind of been an anthem for him, and the words were never more appropriate. What he wanted, a childhood filled with love and compassion, it was out of his reach, but what he needed, the love of his mother, it was still there for him to have. There was nothing to be done about the past, but there was no reason he could think of that they should both continue to suffer now.

As soon as he arrived at the hospital Wednesday morning, he ran into Wilson in the lobby. Apparently, House had accidentally arrived on time. Alone in the elevator, he handed Wilson the envelope from his mother, and said only, "Clear you schedule for the afternoon, I need you to take me to see my mother."

**Ch. 23: A Million Little Pieces**

Wilson had already seen a number of patients, when he decided to take a moment to stop by House's office and solidify plans. He stopped at the door because House was in motion, on his way out.

"This is remarkable, House," he said, returning the letter. "You want me to take you to see your mother? Cuddy and I don't have to conspire to give you propothol and knock you out, you won't throw my keys in the-"

"Did you read it?" House asked, keeping his voice serious and level.

"Yes. I can be free by 2 - that will get us there by nightfall."

"Thanks," House said, and walked in the direction of surgery. "Oh, and don't worry, I've got the bail money."

House checked the board to saw Chase was about to scrub in for a procedure. There were so many details, so many pieces of the puzzle that he needed to address; it seemed to him a new one surfaced every day. He caught Chase while he was scrubbing in; they were alone in the room.

"How's McCoy?" Chased asked, thinking House was here to discuss the patient he had seen yesterday; the one he implanted the pacemaker in.

"He is doing much better than his wife. There is no treatment for 'Oh crap, my husband cheated on me,' but Gaucher's - that we can help with."

"Gaucher's - I've never seen a case-"

"I'm not here to talk differentials - I fired you to avoid it, remember?"

Chase had forgotten, apparently, that he was talking to House. He rolled his eyes, moved away towards the doors of the O R.

"I just wanted to explain about the strawberry body butter."

"Explain or apologize?" Chase asked, still upset that House had been so cold about firing him. He had hoped somehow that House would come back from detox a kinder, gentler House, but he could see he was the same miserable son of a bi*** that he had always been.

"I knew you were allergic, severely allergic," House began.

"House," Chased interrupted, "I would love nothing more than to give you hell for it, believe me, I would, but how can you expect yourself to remember this stripper-"

Now it was House who interrupted. "Chase, the mind is a mansion - and it keeps information in all of its rooms."

Great, thought Chase to himself. His surgical team was ready to begin an appendectomy and House was off on a metaphor. "House," Chased started, but he was interrupted. House was determined to explain.

"I knew you were allergic, and I knew she would cause the anaphylactic shock."

Chase stopped at the door and listened intently.

"What I didn't know, is that it was my left brain, my emotional part, the one I suppress, that allowed for the reaction to happen, that allowed me to risk your life."

Chase was confused, "What are you trying to say, that the emotional part of your brain was trying to kill me?"

"No, that the emotional part of my brain was crying for help - hoping to be caught, hoping someone would notice my breakdown - that it was more than just Vicodin."

Chase listened to House now like he had never listened before. "How do you figure? How do you know it wasn't the right side of your brain that reasoned and calculated - revenge for an old grudge about Volger?"

House didn't need to think about his answer, this one was easy for him. "If I had wanted to kill you, I wouldn't have given you anaphylactic shock at a bachelor party crawling with doctors. Duuhh. I just wanted to explain."

House left, satisfied that the Chase bachelor party issue had been resolved. Check.

Next he stopped at oncology, looking for one Eugene Schwartz. House liked this guy, and he was sorry to diagnose him and run, but that is just how things had turned out. House was curious about the squawk, and he also wanted to know how he was dealing with the cancer, with his death, really.

"Dr. House!" Eugene Schwartz began, "It is so good to see you," he offered kindly, giving him his hand.

Shaking it firmly, House answered, "It is good to see you Mr. Schwartz."

An awkward silence befell them, and House regretted coming up to see him. He simply didn't know how to handle the niceties, the small talk. That stuff, he had learned, the social graces, they simply served no real purpose.

"I knew that Dr. Cuddy liked you, I knew she would take you back," Schwartz said, smiling widely. House gave him a wink, a pat on the shoulder, and walked away.

He knew he had done that all wrong, he knew he should have said something, anything really. He liked this guy, he really did, and still he was unable to say anything uselful. He hoped for better luck as he headed towards Cuddy's office.

Foreman had surprised Cuddy by asking for a moment. She had no idea what he needed from her, but she had a bad feeling. Immediately she feared House had fired somebody, harassed somebody, ordered a dangerous test, or worse. No, she did not like seeing Foreman show up in her office unexpectedly.

"I just wanted you to know, for whatever its worth, that I think House is okay," Foreman said. She looked at him carefully and smiled.

"He is okay? What do you mean?" She immediately thought to herself that he knew. Foreman had trained under House for so many years that he was probably able to deduce that they had both been having sex over the past few days. Hell. Foreman could also probably figure out her menstrual cycle and the type of cereal she had for breakfast based on her skin color.

Foreman thought about her question, and enjoyed the look of concern written so clearly on her face. "You asked me to be your eyes and ears. I thought you might like to know that your chief of diagnostics, fresh from a 6-week stint at the looney bin, is doing well. But I guess you must have already known that."

She was still sitting at her desk several minutes after Foreman had gone. Between the scene at House's yesterday, and Foreman's visit today, she just wasn't sure she was going to be able to keep things together. Almost on cue, House came in unannounced.

"Hi," he started, suddenly wanting to go right up to her and jump her. "I, I just came to tell you I think I may need a day or two off."

"Off? You just got back. Are you-"

"I'm fine. It's not the pain. Wilson is going with me, he's taking me to visit my mother in Kentucky."

"Oh, that's good," she said, visibly disappointed she had been left out of the loop.

House didn't know what to do next. He wanted to hold her, to talk to her, to tell her all the things she needed to hear, but he couldn't. Not in a few minutes in her office anyway - the things he needed to tell her could fill a lifetime. He was afraid she wouldn't understand. He was afraid she would interpret this as him shutting her out. That is not what he wanted to do; that was not what he wanted her to think. It was just what he needed to do.

He came up to her, grabbed her hand and placed his mother's letter in it. "Bye, Cuddy."

**Ch. 24: Road Games**

Wilson had been driving for several hours when their conversation about monster trucks came to its natural end. He took the sudden silence as an opportunity to approach a subject he had wanted to talk to House about since he let Mayfield.

"House, there's something I want to tell you, about the DBS and everything else last year," he began, solemnly.

"Wilson, we talked this to death at Mayfield, if it's all the same to-"

"No, House, it is not the same to me. That's why I want to talk about it." House was rubbing his hand where he had hurt it that day he smashed the wall at Mayfield. Sure, they hadn't talked it _all _out, but they had talked enough, at least he had thought that they had.

"I asked you to do the DBS because I was hoping it could save Amber," Wilson's voice broke. House didn't need Wilson to say anything. He had done the DBS because he wanted to find out what had happened that night; he also needed to know if there was anything that could be done to help Amber. He had done it willingly. He did not need Wilson to say anything at all.

"At the time, I was worried about her, and since then, well, it's just, I shouldn't have asked you to do that. I'm so-"

House shifted his weight in the passenger's seat and asked bluntly, "Can we stop so I can take a leak or would you like me to use your empty water bottle."

Wilson understood two truths at that moment - the first was that while it was difficult for House to accept responsibility or to be wrong in any sense of the word, it was even harder for him to allow those close to him to do so as well. The second truth, the one that was perhaps more urgent at this moment, was that House would be sure to christen his car if he did not find a rest stop ASAP.

The hours rolled on. "Shouldn't you call Cuddy?" Wilson asked, partly to pass the time, and partly because he was curious as to how their relationship was going.

"Why?"

"Because that's what people do, House, in grown-up relationships. They call, they say I miss you, I'll be at my mother's in two hours, how are you, how was your day, how is Rachel….that's what people do."

"It's no wonder people are so miserable in their relationships, then," House responded, sardonically, massaging his leg.

"Seriously, House, Cuddy, she is a normal person, she has expectations," Wilson continued.

"Wanna bet?"

"You're on," Wilson said, egging him on.

"If I'm right, you cover my Monday/Wednesday/Friday diagnostics class next Friday."

"And if I'm right, you are letting me host a welcome back dinner party for you next week, on Friday, after you've taught your diagnostics class."

House was loving the stakes. He loved the thrill of the game. He checked the time, placed Cuddy at her office, trying to leave for the evening, and thought his chances of pissing her off with his call per pretty good. He grabbed his cel and dialed, putting the call on speakerphone.

"Hey Cuddy," he began.

"House," she started, "anything wrong?"

"Nope," House responded, "just checking in to see how you are doing. To let you know we are still a couple of hours from my Mom's house, to see how-"

"House, I'm still at the hospital, and I am exhausted. I'll see you tomorrow when you get back." Dial tone.

"Do you need a lesson plan or can you wing it?" House asked Wilson, almost giggling.

Wilson could not believe it. Maybe his two best friends wouldn't crash and burn after all. They were made for each other.

House leaned back in his seat, massaging his leg, closing his eyes and wearing a half-smile, not so much because he won the bet, but because he had Cuddy. He actually had her.

Wilson's last words wiped the grin away though, "You had better not screw it up, House."

**Ch. 25: Home Again**

It was nearly 10 p.m. when they made the final turn onto House's street. Later than they both had planned. "Maybe we should crash at a hotel for the night, and stop by in the morning," House said soberly, suddenly feeling he needed to postpone this meeting as much as possible.

"No way," said Wilson. "We called her, she's expecting you."

"But, it's so late-"

"House, we're here. You're home," he said, matter-of-factly, as he parked the car in the driveway. They came up to the door, and it opened for them before Wilson rang.

Blythe House was standing there at the door, with the same smile Wilson had seen on her face every time he had seen her, even at her husband's funeral. "James," she said, hugging Wilson, "so good to see you again."

"Good to see you too," he responded nervously. He stepped out of the way so that House could get a good look at his mother.

"Mom," he began. She opened her arms as her eyes filled with tears, and he walked into her hug. He didn't know what to do next, and it seemed to Wilson, neither did she. They stepped away from the door, put down their bags, and accepted her offer of tea.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, "Are you sure you aren't hungry? I can-"

"We ate, Mom," House answered.

"Well, we have a long drive back to New Jersey tomorrow, so, if you don't mind, I think I'll go catch some sleep," Wilson said, trying desperately to extract himself from the strangest, most painful, mother-son reunion he could ever have imagined.

"James, up the stairs, the second door to the right. It's Greg's old room."

"Thank you," Wilson added as he got up from the table, being sure not to make eye contact with House. He could not bear to see the look of desperation he must be harboring. House was just going to have to go through this on his own.

"Greg, I am so glad you came," she offered softly, carefully pronouncing each syllable. "I am so sorry-"

"Mom, I'm not good at talking, you know that. I just wanted you to know I don't blame you - I, I want to let it all go."

Blythe House took a deep breath, exhaled, and took a sip of tea. House looked down at his own mug, pulling at his tea bag. "I know I have been an a$$ all these years, I wanted so much to get back at you-"

"Greg, please, if you think you can let it go, then let's both let it go. Let's just move on, start over." She pulled a strand of hair behind her right ear, "Can we?"

House thought about it. Of course, this is exactly what he wanted to do. That is why he wrote her the letter, why he came after getting her response. This is what he wanted. Yet, there was something about the way she was handling it that was driving him nuts. Could it be that she was deflecting just a bit? Trying to move on, to avoid uncomfortable conversations or hellish memories? After all these years, was House learning that his demeanor, his way of dealing with or suppressing problems, came more from his mother than his father?

"Sure, Mom," he answered, getting up from the table and bringing the mugs to the sink. He thought about things for a moment, and added, before heading in the direction of the stairs, "If you want to pursue a relationship with, you know, my real father, I just want you to know it's okay with me. You deserve to be happy."

House was halfway up the stairs when his mother let out a quiet, short sob.

**Ch. 26: Growing Pains**

After a big breakfast the next morning, Blythe House hugged her son and his best friend, and sent them on their way back to New Jersey. They rode mostly in silence, occasionally changing the radio stations in search of good music.

Eventually, mostly because he was bored, House offered, "I told her she could date my real father, that she had my blessing."

"Well," Wilson said, "that's very big of you."

"I thought, you know, maybe he and I could go fishing, camping, that kind of thing."

Wilson looked over at House and they both laughed, they laughed hard. Soon, though, House fell silent and started massaging his leg.

"How is the pain?" Wilson asked with hesitation, fearing the answer.

"Worse every day," House said quietly, massaging furiously now. "The ketoprofen, not working," House confessed. "Each day is worse than the one before."

The pain was growing exponentially now, and Wilson knew he needed to do something. This was a crisis, and if he didn't help House through it, he new exactly what would happen; he'd be back on the Vicodin and ruining his life in no time. "There's an exit coming up, I have an idea."

If House hadn't been feeling the pain worsen with each minute, perhaps he would have been strong enough to suggest that Wilson not stop at a bar. But at the time, it had seemed like a good idea.

Wilson ordered two Scotches while House sat at a booth. He came back with the drinks and House gulped his down, all in one shot. Wilson handed him his drink, and went to order another round. "This, Wilson," House said as his friend sat across from him, "is the best idea you have had in a long time."

Wilson knew it was stupid, but it seemed better than the alternative. They arrived at House's place at around 8 p.m. Wilson saw Cuddy's car was parked out front, so he decided to drop House off and run. He was sure he would be in trouble for bringing him home stinking drunk, but her wrath could wait until tomorrow.

House was drunk, but aware enough to smell the garlic as he finally was able to open his door. Cuddy was busy in the kitchen, apparently cooking for him. Boy, she is easier than Wilson, he thought. He had just made one comment about cereal, and, like magic, here was dinner. She hadn't heard him come in since she was playing his Stones CDs, and he was able to surprise her from behind as she sautéed the garlic. "Honey, I'm home," he said with some difficulty, as he grabbed her breasts from behind and pushed his body into her.

"You're drunk," she said, clearly disappointed with his attempt.

"Ooooops," he said sarcastically, "you caught me."

"House, I arranged for Theresa to stay for the night, I went grocery shopping, here I am cooking, and you show up drunk?"

"Nag, nag, nag," House said viciously, "it hasn't even been a week, Cuddy, and you're nagging. It took Stacy two years to get off a nag like that. Congratulations."

Cuddy walked out of the kitchen quickly, and House limped after her awkwardly, too drunk to keep himself up straight.

"You're shutting me out, and I'm not Wonder Woman, House, I can't keep knocking the bricks out of the way. I keep waiting for you to open up to me, but-"

"I don't need this," he yelled, almost demonically, and she headed for the door.

She put his mother's letter on the living room table on her way out the door. Through her tears she said, "Maybe you should call Wilson," and she was gone.

House didn't know that human emotion, pure emotion, could bring a person from stinking drunk to ridiculously sober, but the sound of the door slamming, and the disappointment and hurt in Cuddy's voice, it brought him into the moment instantly. And he understood what those sounds meant - that despite Wilson's warnings, he had managed to screw up the best thing in his life.

He ran to the door, grimacing in pain, hoping to get to her before she drove off. He yanked it open in desperation, yelling "Cuddy," but the scream wasn't necessary. She was there, in the hall of his apartment building. She hadn't left, but made no motion to come back, either. She just stood, there, frozen, in the middle of the hall, looking at his door.

He came up to her, tenderly, holding her softly, saying over and over in her ear, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

**Ch. 27: Reversals**

House couldn't think of anything else he could do, so he kept holding her tenderly, repeating "I'm sorry." Cuddy just stood there, not softening to his touch, not even really listening to his words. She was thinking. Cuddy knew this was an early test for her, for their budding relationship. She would need to define, now, in the next few seconds, the meaning of strength, the meaning of dignity and self-respect, and the meaning of love. Would she be able to?

House cupped he face in his hands, catching her glassy eyes in his, coming in close, and kissing her gently. Nothing, no response. He tried again, going deeper this time, until finally something stirred within her and she kissed him back, passionately too. She seemed hungry, pushing her tongue into the depths of his mouth, exploring every corner. She pushed him back into his apartment, kicking the door closed with her foot, pushing House into the wall, where she ran her hands through his hair and up and down his back during this wild, crazed kiss. She stepped back and out of the embrace.

House stepped forward, thinking she was playing a game. He lunged for her greedily. "No," Cuddy answered, with the confidence he had always heard in her tone.

"Cuddy," House said, lunging for her again, more desperately this time.

"No, House, no sex. Let's have dinner and talk." She walked back towards the kitchen, taking a deep breath as soon as she had her back to him.

He walked contritely behind her, "Can we have sex after dinner?"

They set the table and served the dinner quietly, and finally sat to talk and eat. House could see that Cuddy was not going to say a word, at least not any meaningful words. Clearly she had put the ball in his court. He was either going to make this work, or not, and it all depended on his ability to talk to her now. He wished it depended on something else, like his ability to deliver a shiver throughout her body, as he was pretty confident in his ability to do that - but talking, not so much.

He swallowed a forkful of chicken with vegetables, drank some water, and prepared to try. Time to man-up he thought, thinking back to an early mantra taught to him by his father. Really, he thought to himself? You are going to rely on motivational words from John House now?

He began - he started with the pain and the failure of the ketoprofen. He explained that' was why Wilson stopped at the bar, hoping to abate the pain and his own desperation. He could tell she was concerned. "So, what are we going to do?" she asked, thinking of all of the options he had already explored, fearing he would lose hope.

"Well, I'll see Jerry first thing in the morning for physical therapy, then I'll call the pain management clinic that consulted with Mayfield. I'll try something else"

Cuddy was relieved to hear that he had a plan, and that he had not given up on the idea that the pain could be relieved. Of course the alcohol would have taken the edge off, of course Wilson is as scared he'll wind up back on Vicodin as she is - it was going to take some time for the three of them to get back to normal.

After dinner she made coffee and brought two cups over to the couch, where House was massaging his leg. She handed him a cup and sat next to him. She still wasn't talking too much, he noticed. She was still waiting for more. He knew he had hurt her by asking Wilson to take him to visit his mother. He knew he had hurt her when he insisted Wilson take him to Mayfield. He didn't like hurting Cuddy, but he just couldn't let her think of him as this poor, pathetic, crippled middle aged guy. He looked at his mother's letter - it sat where she had placed it earlier, on the living room table.

He picked up the letter and opened it, reading it to himself again. He leaned back on the couch, pulling her softly onto him, and he told her in quiet whispers about his father. He told her about the ice baths, the nights he spent sleeping in the yard, the crushing blow to his jaw, the summer without words. He told her about specific conflicts, he told her about general feelings. He told it all, and when he was done, he told Cuddy about the visit, about the few words he shared with his mother, and about their mutual desire to let this go and try again.

When he was done, they sat there together for a long time. He pushed Cuddy upright to study her face. He didn't see pity there. Thank God, he thought. There was no pity at all, only understanding, an empathy that told House that perhaps Cuddy had her own story to tell, her own scars to divulge. There would be time for that, he thought.

"Take off your pants," she said quietly.

House thought he was dreaming. "What?" he asked, suddenly filled with the hope that make-up sex was imminent.

"You heard me, take them off."

As he did, she knelt in front of him carefully, as he sat back on the couch. He was crazed with anticipation, and he leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Cuddy started to massage his leg. She did it forcefully, in deep strokes, pushing and pulling in al the right places. He opened his eyes and looked at her with joyful surprise, but she didn't see him, she was busy, working his leg as if with magical fingers. If House believed in God he would have thanked him now, at this moment. But he doesn't, so he thanked Cuddy.

"Cuddy," House began tenderly, carrying her up off her knees and onto him. "Where did'-"

"When you called last night I was visiting with Jerry," she said. "I want to be able to help-"

The thought ended there as it was interrupted by an explosion of sexual desire and ecstasy. They were both surprised at their apparent ability to get better at sex with each experience - making it last longer, helping each other hold on to the pleasures - it was remarkable. They headed to his room where they continued to hold each other tenderly throughout the night. When House awoke in the morning, she was gone.

He got up slowly, ecstatic at first that he was able to do what was necessary to save their relationship. Things are good, he thought, as he put on his robe and began to run his shower. His heart sank, though, as he remembered his delusion from 7 weeks ago. He started to walk around his apartment slowly, as his heart filled with fear. What if it didn't happen? What if none of this was happening? The water was still running in his shower when he went got to the living room - two mugs of coffee. That is good, he thought. Still not fully convinced, he headed towards the kitchen where he found mountains of dirty dishes and crusty pots. Next to the coffee pot was a note-

_Ran home to see Rachel and get ready for work. Sorry about the dishes. ___

House smiled - a free, happy smile, relieved that happiness was still within his reach. Then he looked at his kitchen counter again, thinking, I hate doing dishes.

**Ch. 28: The Odds**

Cuddy would have noticed that House was late for work again if she herself had been in on time, but by the time she arrived at her house early Friday morning he had already decided to take the morning off. After all, she was the boss. She hardly ever took time off and she had an uncontrollable urge to spend time with Rachel. She fed her and held her and watched her play. Finally, she rocked her to sleep for her morning nap, enjoying the closeness, the smell, the feeling of holding this beautiful little girl who relied on her for everything. She thought about House, and about his mother and father, about the way he grew up and the man he became.

She was glad that he had come to terms with his mother, and that he would try to put their past behind him and forge a new relationship, but she, Lisa Cuddy, wanted nothing to do with Blythe House. She could not understand how a mother could allow her son to be hurt in that way; and she did not want to make any attempt to understand it.

She thought about Wilson's call the day House's father had died, and how she had conspired with Wilson to get House to the funeral. She had tricked him and given him a shot of propothol to knock him out and get him there on time to deliver the eulogy. The thought of that day almost made her throw up. She had been so wrong, always assuming House was an a$$. Sure, he was almost always an a$$ she corrected herself, but there did seem to be reasons.

When Cuddy finally made it in to her office around 11 a.m., she ran into Wilson by the clinic. He had seen her and buried his head in a file, walking in the opposite direction. She realized instantly that he was avoiding her, probably afraid she was mad he had brought House home drunk last night. She decided to let him squirm a bit for the rest of the day. It is ironic, she thought, that this friend who had spent the better part of the year trying to get her together with House was almost the cause of their break-up.

House made it to the hospital by 10 a.m. He had no patients scheduled, he had completed his clinic duty for the week, and he had washed dishes, more dishes than he had probably washed in the past five years. He felt entitled, then, to leave his place at his leisure, take the scenic route to work on his bike, and stroll in just about an hour late. He was almost hoping Cuddy would catch him, but her office seemed empty as he headed towards the main elevators.

After checking in with his team, confirming the progress of McCoy's treatment and ensuring they were completing the weekly paperwork, he headed towards physical therapy. He ran into Cameron on the way.

"You look good," Cameron began, walking in step with him, towards the rehab wing.

"Look, Cameron, you're married now. I really think this stalking habit-"

"I mean it House, you look good, happy even," she added, catching him by surprise.

"Nonsense," House deflected, flashing a brief smile to give her the satisfaction.

"Chase told me you talked. It meant a lot to-"

"Cameron, you and I both know that your British love toy looks only for what's in it for-"

"Australian!" she said, annoyed House keeps insisting on calling him British. "He started a pool, a why does House look so happy pool."

House stopped walking, interested in the conversation for the first time. "What's the money on?"

Cameron smiled coyly, realizing she had his full attention. "Well, leading right now is that you went back to Vicodin. In second place, antidepressants. Foreman is behind in the pool, betting you are sleeping with Cuddy." She looked at him carefully as she added the third option to look for any reaction.

"Has Wilson put his money anywhere?"

"He's with Foreman."

"Figures," House conceded, as he headed towards physical therapy again. Cameron walked back towards the ER with no clearer idea than she had before about the apparent happiness creeping into House's life.

"Dr. House," Jerry said as House entered the treatment area, extending his hand. Feeling indebted to Jerry, not only for the relief that his daily session brings, but for taking the time to teach Cuddy the massage, House shook his hand warmly. When they finished the session, they called the New York pain management specialists that consulted with Mayfield. They could see him as early as Monday, but House decided to schedule the appointment for next Friday since Wilson would be covering his diagnostics class. As House was ready to leave physical therapy, Jerry asked, "Will you be okay for another week, Dr. House?"

"Jerry, I have been through worse - thanks to your magic massages I just might make it. Oh, and about Dr. Cuddy-"

Jerry looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry if I was out of line, Dr. House, but she's the boss, and she wanted to learn how to-"

"It's okay, it is a good thing. As payment, go find Dr. Chase in surgery - he is running a pool I think you might be interested in. You can make some big dough - just play dumb, will you?"

House left Jerry deep in confusion. He hoped Jerry would take him up on the offer – he sure deserved the cash more than Wilson.

Wilson was with a patient when House interrupted. He waited outside, looking annoyingly through the window of his office until Wilson finally excused himself and stepped out into the hall. "Can I help you?"

"I just thought you'd like to know that I am going to New York next Friday to the pain management clinic to review the ketoprofen and look at some alternative treatments," House said quickly, knowing it would surprise him.

"That's great House," Wilson said, honestly pleased that House was actually taking steps forward.

"Oh yeah, one more thing," House added, saving the clincher for the last minute, knowing it would intrigue Wilson as he walked away, "Cuddy and I had an actual date last night."

"A date? After you came home drunk? I thought she'd be livid."

"Well, she was, she made me have dinner and talk before sex – sounds like a date, right?"

Wilson headed back towards his door. "Not kidding now, she almost walked out on me when I got there she was so mad I was drunk."

"House, I'm sorry, it was all-"

"Don't worry about it though, the make-up sex was worth it – the things she can do with her tongue."

Wilson was back in his office before House finished the sentence. He came back out for a moment, "House, if you want, I can go with you next week to New York, another road trip – we can promise Cuddy no bars."

House turned back, winked at his friend, and said, "Thanks, but I think I'll ask Cuddy."

House checked his watch, the one Kutner had given him, and he realized he was almost late for his appointment. He had texted Cuddy to meet him on the rooftop at 11:45 – she hadn't responded, but she always checks her texts, and he knew she would be there. He often went up to the rooftop to think. It was desolate, perfect for a private encounter. She was there when he arrived.

Words weren't spoken. He walked right up to her, but his arms around her, and buried his head in her neck. Cuddy couldn't believe that the electricity between them kept getting hotter and hotter. It had been a week and she still was aroused by his touch in such a way she was constantly surprised by it. He fondled her breasts, kissed her mouth deeply, and grabbed her buttocks tightly. He pushed himself onto her, separating her legs and teasing her slowly with his tongue. When he saw that she was ready, desperately ready for his entrance, he stepped out of the embrace, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and said, "Sorry, Cuddy, I have to go see about a patient, maybe we can finish this after we have dinner and talk later?"

He walked away, feeling for the first time in the last few days, that he had the power. It felt good. He knew, deep down, that Cuddy would be plotting on how to get it back, and it would be fun to watch her try.

House sat in his office with his team, reviewing budget reports that would be due next week. Taub, Thirteen and Foreman had made requests in the past few weeks, requests for new equipment, based on research studies at other hospitals, and they were all busy evaluating what they could afford and what they should order. In a heated discussion regarding the benefits of nuclear imaging, an overweight professional wrestler looking guy knocked on House's door and entered the room.

"Can we help you?" Foreman asked.

"I'm looking for Dr. House," the overweight, muscular guy asserted. The team looked to House, and they looked scared. Taub thought maybe House was scre***** this guy's wife, explaining his happiness.

The guy continued, "Dr. Cuddy sent me from the clinic, she said you specialize in, you know, anus problems."

"She did, did she?" House thought, almost turned on at the idea of Cuddy talking this giant into this story. "Exactly what kind of anus problem do you think you have?"

House's team left the room immediately, before he could ask them to help with the patient. They laughed themselves into stitches outside. A few minute later, the man left first, tying his belt as he left. House left after him, limping his way to Cuddy's office at full speed. He did not wait for her to open the door, he barged in his usual way. He came right up to her desk and said, "Well played, Dr. Cuddy, well played. Now, I might be the specialist for anus problems, but I warn you that he thinks you are the expert on stool samples."

Cuddy laughed. Another power play, another skirmish, another day in the life of this interesting relationship with House. He turned as if to leave, and she got up and walked with him towards the door. House said, "You know, Wilson is going to cover my class next Friday, that ridiculous class you are making me teach, and I thought maybe you and I could leave for New York for a weekend away from this-"

Cuddy didn't let him finish. "House, I can't just leave for a weekend at the drop of a hat – what about Rachel? You can't just assume-"

Now House was the one who interrupted. "Of course, sorry." And he left.

Cuddy felt bad about the way she had snapped at him for the rest of the day. He looked so sad when he left her office. The truth is, though, that he has to understand that they aren't in college anymore. She has Rachel – it is more than obligation – it is devotion. She wasn't sure if a man like House could ever understand it. Sometimes Cuddy thought she could be with no one else – House was the man of her dreams. Sometimes she felt there was no way for this relationship to ever work.

She was feeling so down about it that she decided to visit with Wilson. Maybe he had some insight into House and his real feelings about Rachel. Plus, she knew he loved to gossip and he probably felt badly about getting him drunk, so if he had anything to say, she knew she would get it out of him. Wilson was working on the computer when she came in his office. He looked over at her and immediately started to apologize about the bar. "Wilson, I don't know what I'm doing with House. I am afraid I am making a big mistake."

"You've got to be kidding me," Wilson said. "Things are going great. Both of you, you've never been happier, or at least, less miserable."

"He just asked me to go to New York with him next Friday, for the weekend, as if Rachel didn't even exist. He hasn't accepted-"

Wilson interrupted. "Cuddy, he is asking you to New York to go with him to the pain clinic. He has an appointment next Friday. I offered to go with him, but I guess he wanted to go with-"

Cuddy got up from the couch, suddenly really upset with herself for jumping to conclusions. She couldn't believe she had misjudged House so much. He had actually decided to ask her instead of Wilson for once, and she blew it. Again, steps forward and steps backwards. "Wilson, can you keep Rachel for the weekend? You owe me."

She went straight to House's office. His team had left for the day. He was playing some random chords on his guitar. He hadn't left because he didn't want to go home and he didn't feel like going to Cuddy's. He was tired of the game, the back and forth. He wasn't sure she would ever be able to see him as something other than a screwup. Maybe his PI was right about her and the way that she saw him. She would never believe he was a cheerleader in college, it was easier for her to believe that he photoshopped the picture.

"I'm sorry," she offered quietly from the doorway as he kept playing guitar. "Wilson told me about your appointment, I'm sorry."

She came closer to him, but he didn't put the guitar down. He made no invitation for her to come closer. He kept playing chords. "House," she said. "Talk to me."

"I'm not mad at you, Cuddy. I'm just, I don't know. I'm not so sure this is going anywhere."

Cuddy came closer, and looking at him gently in his eyes said, "After all these years, isn't it good that we still surprise each other?"

House shrugged off her comment and said, "Not when the surprise is that I'm not such a big disappointment."

She held his face, the way she had done that last day in her office, the day that her touch kept him from falling apart into a billion little pieces. She said only, "I love you, and I'm coming with you next week."

House put his guitar down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "What about-"

"Wilson is keeping Rachel for the weekend – payback is a b****, and he almost did break us up last night." As she walked towards the door, she thought to herself, and I almost did it today. She turned back and asked House to stop by her office before he left for the night to pick up some budget forms that would be due to the board next week.

When House finally got around to packing up for the night he headed towards Cuddy's office. It was dark – if she hadn't asked him to stop by he would have thought she wasn't there. The clinic was empty, with the staff long gone. He opened the door to her office, and saw the silhouette of a beautiful, naked woman sitting on Cuddy's desk. She was naked, fully naked, and he could see the curves thanks to the security lights coming in from the window.

"I guess you don't have budget forms for me?" he offered, wondering what was going on. Cuddy was wild, but completely naked in her office was crazy and reckless, even for her.

"I do," she said, they are there by the couch."

He stood silently watching her, taking in every curve, every part of shadow and light on her body. Cuddy said softly and deliberately, "Greg, I never did properly thank you for bringing my desk out of storage for me."

They locked eyes, both smiling. This moment, this gesture by Lisa Cuddy told Gregory House that she could see him as a cheerleader, as a romantic, as a guy who would get her college desk out of storage for her to make her happy. He came up to her, touching the desk with his hand first, the holding her naked body close to his. "I love you, Lisa. Thank you."

**Ch. 29: Weekend Warriors**

A full week had gone by since House's release from Mayfield. As he sat in lukewarm water in his tub early on Saturday morning, he went through the events of the week in his mind, paying special attention to the glorious details of each sexual encounter with Lisa Cuddy.

The entire week, really, presented an unbelievable turn of events. He had managed to start a relationship with a woman he had loved and feared for years. He had managed to re-establish his friendship with Wilson - they were close in a way they had not been since Amber's death. He had even started to trust in himself in a way he had not done, perhaps ever in his life.

Sure, he trusted his ability to diagnose even the most confusing case; he trusted his ability to navigate his bike through the trickiest of turns at high speed. He trusted his ability to pull a prank on Wilson or to bring a woman to climax, or to pull of the perfect bluff in a poker game - but he had never, until this week, trusted in his own ability to find happiness. He knew now that it was possible. Even if he lost it, as he was sure that he would, swinging from joy to misery, he knew now where happiness lived, and how to find it again.

The pain was still there. It presented a challenge, of course. It would be difficult to get out of the tub. It would be even harder to dry himself off and get dressed. These things most people take for granted. The pain was getting worse each day, yet rather than feel sorry for himself, he considered that perhaps by next Friday he would find some relief in New York. He had spent enough time over the past several years feeling sorry for himself. It was time to look forward, he thought.

After his bath he turned his attention to the budget forms. He actually had plenty of work to do this weekend, between the budgets and the diagnostics class to plan for - so he had to take a raincheck when Wilson called to try to get a poker game together for the evening. He knew Wilson had thought he had plans with Cuddy. Wilson would never believe he would be working at home over the weekend. But, there he was, papers spread across his living room table, as he lay on the couch, highlighting his textbook.

Cuddy was busy herself on Saturday, running errands and spending time with Rachel. Naturally, she too had been thinking about the events of the past week. She could not believe a person could go from the depths of despair to the heights of hope in such a short time. When House was admitted to Mayfield they had been flirting with a relationship. Neither would admit it. It seemed to her, that when she was on the verge of making a move, he would back off, and when he was on the verge of making the move, she would back off. They had gotten so used to their game that she was sure they would never be able to work it out. She had resigned herself to the idea that he would never take that final step towards her - while he may have been attracted to her, and he may have admired her intellect - he simply must not have loved her enough.

She was so surprised to see him at her door last week, and to hear him open up to her the way he did. And the sex - it was powerful. She had never experienced sex that way, so intimate, so moving, so knowing. It was as if all of the dancing they had done over the years, all of the games and the back and forth, led them to this moment - to this relationship where everything was possible, and everything was shared.

Most of the afternoon had passed when her mother called. As she picked up her cel she noticed a text from House - "What r u wearing?". She chuckled and chatted with her Mom. When she hung up, she had forgotten about the text, and was off to the next Saturday task - straightening out drawers in her armoire.

Saturday came and went without any contact between the two middle aged lovers, and that was fine with both of them. It was comfortable, as if this week-old relationship was the culmination of a 20+ year marriage of sorts. There were no expectations, no pressures, no promises - at least not now - there was just them, their vulnerability, intimacy and heat. Of course, she knew the games would continue. They had to, she was counting on it.

It was on Sunday that Hanson alerted House once more that he was needed at the hospital. After checking with Taub, who had placed the call, he headed in to begin the tedious task of a differential diagnosis on a new patient. While he felt he made progress this past week with Cuddy and Wilson, he knew he still had work to do with his team. They still did not seem to trust his judgment; they still seemed to be mad at him - at least, more made than usual. He still had work to do there, and he knew it. As he packed his papers to head back to PPTH, he gave Cuddy a call to let her know where he'd be.

**Ch. 30: Some Like it Hot**

By the time House arrived at his office on Sunday evening, his team had already assembled in the conference room. Foreman was leading a discussion of the symptoms, and to House's surprise, Cameron was there as well, holding the patient file and emphasizing details in the patient history.

After observing for a moment, House jumped right in, "You miss it Cam, don't you. Admit it."

Cameron put the file down. "House, this isn't about you, it's my patient. She came in through the ER," she said plainly.

"Okay then," House said, calling her bluff. "Thanks for the file - you can leave now."

"No, actually, I want to work the case. I'm not on call now, and-"

"Then go home to your husband, I am sure he is waiting."

"House," Cameron said, louder now, "she is a 34 year old woman, with a husband and five kids. She came in with a fever a month ago. After running some cultures, all negative, I sent her home with FUO on antibiotics."

"So what's the problem? There are over 1,500 possible causes for a fever, Cameron. It is our job, now, in diagnostics, to figure out which one is causing hers. Emergency medicine did all it could – we'll take it from here."

Cameron grabbed the file and handed it to House. "The problem is, when she came back to the ER today, her fever was spiking at 104 and-"

"I know. That is why we are all here on Sunday evening. The question is, why are you here? Did you miss something? Guilty conscience?" He was reviewing the file now.

"What makes this case interesting; it's not in her file yet. She just told me right now, before I admitted her."

Now, everyone shifted in their seats. Thirteen and Taub had been looking from House to Cameron and back during the exchange. Foreman, used to their arguments, had been scanning the database for recent area outbreaks of various viruses, trying to get himself home in time for the Nets game. But at Cameron's words, they all stopped in their tracks and looked over at her, hoping for a big payoff.

Nobody has hoping for an interesting case more than House. If he was going to have to work on a differential diagnosis on a Sunday night, after a weekend spent working at home, with his leg already throbbing in pain, then the payoff had to be big.

Cameron cleared her throat and began, uneasily. "The patient, Nora, she said last month that the fever was new. Today, she said she's been suffering from febrile syndrome for the better part of the last two years."

"Everybody lies," said House.

Annoyed, Foreman jumped in, "Why would she lie about a fever?"

"She likes it," Cameron added, enjoying her position now. She had the information that everyone wanted. The payoff would be big. This case would be interesting. They would all be thanking her soon, and enjoying her company as she helped them run tests. They will be grateful, she thought.

"A fever lasting two years, does she have any idea how she has compromised her immune-" Thirteen began. She was quickly interrupted by Taub, "Who likes having a fever?"

Foreman and House were silent. They were both still staring at Cameron, almost smiling a bit, both understanding that she still had more to say.

Cameron continued, "She came in today because she was feeling so lethargic. The malaise that usually accompanies fever, it hadn't hit her until the last couple of months, and now, well, it's unbearable."

Knowing that Cameron had cultured in the ER and found no bacteria, Thirteen started to rattle off possible systemic viral causes.

"Shut up," House interrupted. "Can't you tell Dr. Cameron is still holding out on us? Even a two-year-old fever can't keep her away from her Anglo-Saxon beefcake on a Sunday night. Today is probably Blockbuster movie night for the Chases." He looked at her carefully, "Now, give it up."

"Orgasms," Cameron offered, suddenly embarrassed by the sound of the word.

"Orgasms?" Foreman repeated, "What do you mean orgasms?"

House looked over at Foreman, "If you don't know what she means by orgasms," he started, "then might I suggest you and Thirteen here have been going at things the wrong-"

"She had never experienced an orgasm before the fever, and since then, she has them all the time."

It took a moment, but Taub finally caught up to the conversation. "Are we talking about orgasms as a symptom?" he said, with an incredulous tone.

Before he could finish his question, House had it on the board. "Febrile syndrome, an up arrow with the number 104 next to it, malaise, and in big, capital letters – THE BIG O."

Some days he loved his job.

**Ch. 31: The Heat is On**

"What tests have you run? What do you have so far?" House began the differential.

Pleased that he didn't ask her to leave again, Cameron began. "I ran the typical blood and urine cultures, everything was negative," she said. "I thought she had been febrile for a few days, not a couple of years, so I left it at FUO and prescribed the antibiotics in case there was a latent infection."

"And she was unresponsive to the antibiotics, telling us what?" House continued.

It was Thirteen who responded. "Not bacterial – but could be viral – could be Hep A, Hep B, tb, mono-"

"Wait a second," Taub jumped in. "We are just talking about the fever here, what about the orgasms? "

It was Foreman this time, who let out a chuckle. "There is no differential in the books for a fever and orgasms. They have to be unrelated."

Cameron stood up, "Foreman, if we've learned anything over the past five years it's that everything is related. It's always related."

House got up, grabbed his cane and headed out the door. "Where are you going?" asked Taub.

"To see the patient, of course," he responded as he entered the hall. The rest of the team exchanged glances and followed. House never saw the patient, at least not unless he had to.

Cameron caught up and said under her breath, "You can't embarrass her House, it took a lot for her to explain what was going on. All of us walking in to ogle at her-"

He turned to the team, "Cameron has a point – Foreman, you're with me. The rest of you, look for connections – viral infections that affect the nervous system, maybe blood vessels – look through the history for past infections, medications, Cameron – you lead the exercise."

Taub, Thirteen and Cameron, visibly disappointed, headed back to the conference table.

When House and Foreman reached the patient's room they found a cluttered mess of kids, crayons and toys. The patient's husband, a rather nerdy looking thirty-something year old, introduced himself. "You must be Dr. House, I'm Ron, Nora's husband."

"Nice to meet you Ron," House said, eyeing the patient and missing Ron's extended hand. Foreman grabbed it to make up for House's lack of social skills, "I'm Dr. Foreman, Dr. House's colleague. I'll also be working on this case."

As the introductions were completed, two of the five kids started crying loudly, while another kicked Foreman in the leg. "Are you going to figure out what's wrong with my Mom?" Foreman grabbed his leg, "We are going to try," he whimpered.

"Ron," House said, "maybe you can take your kids down to the cafeteria for a snack, so we can examine your wife?"

Ron shrugged, obviously strained by the idea of taking all five kids down to the cafeteria. Nora chimed in, "Remember, no junk food."

When they were alone, Nora began, "Did Dr. Cameron tell you about my 'condition'?" She used air quotes as she said the word 'condition' in an attempt to emphasize the word. Her speech was labored; it was clearly an effort to get the words out.

House couldn't help himself. "Do you mean your 'fever', your 'lethargy' or your 'orgasms'?"

She avoided eye contact, which was just fine with House and Foreman. "I meant all of them, but really, if you could just get rid of the fever and lethargy – the other thing I can live with." She was speaking slowly, as if every syllable hurt, and she looked tired.

Foreman checked her heartbeat and respiration, and told House, "Elevated." Foreman responded to the patient, "Nora, the thing is that if all of these symptoms are related, treating for one would mean treating all of them."

"Can you remember, before the fever started, were you sick? Could you have had a respiratory infection, or a stomach flu, anything like that?" House asked. "Sometimes an infection, even if it's treated, can cause complications later on."

Nora started to tear up, as if she were going to start crying. House looked over at Foreman, who looked as uncomfortable now as House himself felt. This is the reason House didn't like seeing patients. "Dr. House, I got married right out of high school, I've slept with a grand total of three men in my entire life, I've had five kids, I'm a stay at home mom who home schools – I had my first orgasm two years ago. I have never enjoyed sex. You have to understand, it's important to me that I can keep having orgasms. It took 32 years."

Her eyes went from teary to rolling back a bit, House called for the nurse to bring in compresses and administer another dose of ibuprofen. Nora was gone, asleep yet restless, the way someone would look when their fever spikes at 104. Her doctors left her in the care of the floor nurse, and headed back to work on the differential with the team. They ran into Ron and the kids in the hall. He put down the youngest, the one who had kicked Foreman, and told the oldest to watch them while he talked to the doctors.

"So, what do you think?" he asked House and Foreman.

"We need to run some tests and study the case before we can reach any conclusions," Foreman responded.

Ron looked at House. "You need to make her orgasms stop. Please."

This surprised House and Foreman. "Ron, I know you must be worried about her fevers, her well-being, but aren't you glad she's at least finding some pleasure in sex?" Foreman asked, carefully.

"She doesn't have the orgasms with sex, they come spontaneously, when you least expect it. It's a problem. To top it off, you might imagine she has no need for sex now that she can climax on her own almost at will."

Foreman and House exchanged a knowing glance, and then Foreman assured Ron they would do everything in their power to help Nora. It was almost midnight when House made it back to his place. Nora was stable, and he dismissed the team for the night so they could start analyzing test results for the new labs they ordered in the morning. He thought about calling Wilson to tell him about the case, but decided he would surprise him with it in the morning. He thought about calling Cuddy, just to hear her voice, but decided she probably needed her sleep after a weekend with Rachel. When House finally put his head on his pillow on Sunday night, he was only thinking about one thing, orgasms.

Cuddy was at the reception desk signing some forms when House arrived on Monday morning. She smiled, "You're on time, a few minutes early even."

"I have a class to teach," he said gruffly, and held out a binder, "I'm even prepared."

Cuddy looked at him from head to toe. "I hope you put more effort into your lecture than you did into your ensemble today, your shirt's wrinkled" she said, as she headed back in the direction of her office. She gave a quick turn and caught him looking at her butt, "And don't forget your clinic hours."

House stopped by Wilson's office on the way to the lecture hall. "I have a new patient."

Wilson looked up from his charts, "Congratulations House. You do know, doctors see patients, multiple patients, every day."

"Yes," House responded, "but do those patients complain of sudden onset orgasms?" He said the last part slowly, for effect.

Wilson tossed his pen down. "This isn't fair. You get to have orgasms now, presumably you get to give them as well, and now – you are treating a patient for it too?"

"That, my friend, is karma," House responded. "Do you know what I had to put up with at Mayfield? It was bound to come around." House headed in the direction of the lecture hall, with Wilson following him.

"So House, do you think there is any chance that Cuddy will want to stay home with Rachel this weekend and send me to New York with you?" House could tell Wilson looked visibly nervous.

"Jimmy," he said sarcastically, "are you going to let a 9-month old scare you? I stayed with her the other night, it's not a mystery. She poops, she plays, she eats, she sleeps. You'll be fine."

"I'm not scared," Wilson responded, "it's just, you know, I have more experience with pain management than she does, you know, I thought I could be of more help to-"

House cleared his throat and turned to Wilson, "You may have more experience with pain management, but she has more experience with erection management, and if I have to pick…"

Exasperated, Wilson had turned back towards his office.

After his lecture, House caught up with Wilson in the cafeteria. He slid into his booth, asking, "So, what's for lunch?"

Wilson snapped, "Are you incapable of purchasing your own lunch? Are you really this cheap or is this a test of our friendship, somehow? I'd like to know."

House, unphased by Wilson's outburst, grabbed half of his club sandwich. "Still nervous about Friday, huh? Don't worry; I had dubbed her the demon child before I got to know her. Not so bad, really. She's just like a little Cuddy, really. "

House told Wilson about Nora and Ron and the fevers and orgasms and lack of orgasms, and he looked to rule out, or rule in, for that matter, any possible malignancies. "Assuming you checked her marrow already, with those symptoms," Wilson explained, "the only malignancy I can think of would be CNS – a spinal tap and a brain MRI with contrast should be all you need to rule it out."

"What about the liver – a tumor in her liver could-"

"No, it would have to be so large it would have metastasized in the course of these two years – she'd be dead."

"Thanks," House offered, pulling out his phone to call Foreman while on his way to physical therapy. After he finished his session, he limped back towards his office to check on their progress with the new patient. Apparently, someone told Cuddy they had an interesting case because she came in to observe their discussion.

The team thought Cuddy was there to check on House, to see if he was fit for duty and functioning well without the Vicodin. Cameron thought she saw them exchange an awkward glance – she noticed Foreman had seen it also. House thought she was there to get a rush out of watching him work. He had worked on differentials with Cuddy in the past, and those differentials became the subjects of fantasies for him. For the second time in as many days, House thought about how much he truly loved his job.

**Ch. 32: A New Plan**

Cameron began with the history, reviewing the board, listing all of their new lab results and revising the list of diseases or causes that had been ruled out. Cuddy interrupted, "Are the orgasms spontaneous or do they require arousal?"

She was looking at Cameron, using her best doctor/administrator voice. House was sure this would be difficult, talking about orgasms and arousals with Cuddy in front of his team. Cameron answered, "Spontaneous."

Cuddy continued, "So not at any kind of regular interval at all? Or a specific time of day?"

House answered this time, zeroing in on her look from across the conference table. "Spontaneous – coming from a natural tendency or impulse," House said in a condescending tone. "Are you having trouble with the semantics?"

"Orgasms occur naturally during sexual activity. If they occur without sexual activity, they are no longer natural. If they occurred at specific times, it could be hormonal."

Taub looked at the chart. "Nope, spontaneous here means at any time – no pattern."

Cuddy shot a look at Taub, "Just because you haven't detected the pattern, it doesn't mean there isn't one." She directed her glance at House. "You are still looking for one, I hope." Her tone implied a challenge.

"Are you checking up on me Dr. Cuddy?" House asked evenly.

"No," Cuddy responded, maybe a bit too defensively, then she pushed on. "I am suggesting that you haven't ruled out endocrine imbalances, they could explain the fever and the 'big O'," she said sarcastically, referring to the board.

House grabbed his cane and walked over to Cameron, taking the file from her hands. "TSH levels are normal, glucose and insulin, normal, estrogen, normal." He looked at her with his finest cocky smirk.

She was not intimidated. "Her own immune system could be wreaking havoc on her labs. You would need to physically examine her glands. Did you-"

House read from the chart. "Looky here, the fine doctors you employ in diagnostics did think of this, Dr. Cuddy." He shot a look at Foreman, "tell her about the ultrasounds."

Foreman responded, "I scanned her thyroid, her kidneys—"

"And you found nothing remarkable?" Cuddy interrupted, again using her best professional voice. The team shot looks at each other. They were lost again in another House/Cuddy battle, the kind in which House and Cuddy were the only ones in the room.

"The scans were negative, ruling in endocrine imbalances," House interjected. "What was remarkable, though," House continued, looking directly at Cuddy,"is that she experienced three separate orgasms during the scans. Thirteen was there; would you like to see a demonstration?"

Cuddy stood up, confident that House had the differential under control, and that House had his team under control. She had wanted to sit in really to watch him work, and to see if he still had the trust and respect of his team. When Foreman had stopped by last week to tell her that House was okay, she was caught off guard. She hadn't even thought of the possibility that he wasn't, professionally, okay. She wanted to see for herself. It turns out he was okay, so okay, in fact, that she was feeling a bit flushed.

As she headed towards the door, motioning for the team to continue its work, House continued, noting weakness, "Dr. Cuddy, if you'd like to examine the patient, perform a pelvic exam or a breast examination, I can introduce you – I am pretty sure that would be enough to cause another wave of orgasms and we could study their spontaneous nature, look for patterns, that kind of thing."

Cuddy was in the hall before he had finished.

The team bounced several more ideas around and left to perform the new tests they had agreed upon. Cuddy lingered down the hall and then returned, pretending to have some papers to review with House. He was sitting at his desk. "I love watching you work," she said seductively, coming close to his desk, grabbing his red and grey tennis ball. Maybe she didn't say it seductively, but it seemed seductive to House. The way she ordered a sandwich was enough to turn him on, not to mention the way she held his tennis ball in her hands.

"How was the lecture?"

"Confirmed for me that interns are idiots," House responded. He was looking at her seductively now. Well, maybe he was just looking at her, but for Cuddy, any time their eyes met she felt a pang of desire.

"Will I see you later?" she asked, standing so close to him now that their legs almost touched. House shifted his weight in his chair. "Yes," he answered, barely getting the word out.

She headed back towards the door, tossing the ball back at him, "The budget meeting is tomorrow, don't forget I need the paperwork for your department," and she was gone.

House left the hospital early. He headed home to finish working on the budget, and then went directly to Cuddy's. After getting Rachel to bed, they wondered about Nora and her orgasms, and they experimented themselves, in the name of medicine of course.

By the time he arrived at the hospital on Tuesday, he found the team had gotten nowhere new with Nora or her symptoms. So far they had only ruled out cancer, TB, Hep A, Hep B, pneumonia, meningitis and any other known bacterial infections. There were still over 1,500 possible causes for the fevers, and still, no connection to the orgasms.

"Her fever got worse overnight," Thirteen said, changing the number on the board to 106.

"That puts her at greater risk for seizures and brain damage," Foreman said. "We need to treat, and fast."

"Treat for what?" Taub asked. "We still have no idea what's wrong with her."

House looked at the board and back around the room. "Where's Cameron?"

"I assume in the ER, doing her actual job," Thirteen said, a bit too forcefully.

"Rooar," House made a cat fight motion in her direction, and headed towards the ER.

Cameron was stitching up a construction worker's forearm when House interrupted. "No longer interested in your patient?" he asked.

"I'll be up later, during my break," she said, annoyed he had interrupted her while she was working on a patient.

"Cameron, you know you are wasting your time here," House said as he headed back towards the clinic.

The loss of Kutner had left an opening for a diagnostician on his team. House did not intend to fill the position at first. He didn't intend to fill it at all until last night. While he was working on the budgets for Cuddy, though, he thought about staffing again, and his thoughts went to Cameron. It had seemed to him that she had grown so much over the past year. She finally seemed to have a sense of confidence about her – and that was what he needed to help keep the team together and functioning well.

It would be inevitable that Thirteen's health would begin to decline, and he knew very well that her decline could signal the loss of Foreman as well. He was convinced, now, that he needed Cameron on his team more than ever. Now, he just had to convince Cuddy to let him hire her, Cameron to want the job, and Chase to let her accept it.

He knocked on Cuddy's door but opened it without waiting for a response. She was on the phone. He waited, running his fingers back and forth over her side of her desk. She blushed, continuing her call to the board member, talking about budgets and other hospital nonsense. She put the call on hold for a moment, "House, I have to take this," she said. "Can it wait?"

He dropped his budget report on the floor next to her, and she leaned over to pick it up, giving him an open view of her chest. "Thanks for the look at the fun bags," he said, leaving her office with a sense of accomplishment. Okay, so maybe he still had to complete his clinic duty for the week, and maybe he still had to cure his patient and even teach the insufferable interns tomorrow, but he had gotten a cheap view of Cuddy's breasts. Nothing could compare to that thrill, not even eating half of Wilson's lunch.

**Ch. 33: Reflexes**

House slept fitfully during the night and early Wednesday morning. Cuddy didn't steal his sheets – she had spent the night at her house and he had spent it at his place. It wasn't a Cuddy fantasy or even a Mayfield nightmare that kept him from sleeping. He did have those sometimes, the scariest ones involved Amber. What made those so bad was not knowing when he woke up if they were dreams or hallucinations.

But no, what kept him from sleeping in the early hours of the morning on Wednesday was the leg pain. It was as bad as it had ever been – the massage and ketoprofen only took the edge off – the pain was still at least a 7 on the 10 point scale.

He gave up on sleep and decided instead to indulge himself in some of the General Hospital he missed while he was at Mayfield. Wilson had dutifully set House's DVR to record the Friday episodes – as with any soap opera, you really only need to watch on Friday to figure out what had happened during the week. This kept his mind off of the pain until it was time to go to work.

"An orgasm, really, is nothing more than a reflex," House announced as he entered the conference room.

"Okay," Taub said. "How does this help us diagnose-"

"Thirty two years. Probably twenty of those with potential for sexual arousal, yet without ever experiencing it," House said.

"Okay…" Taub said again, waiting for House's epiphany.

"If an orgasm is the reflex that signals the release of sexual tension," House began, "then-"

Foreman finished, "She is releasing the sexual tension she has built over the past 20 years?"

House couldn't help but laugh out loud at how this sounded. He wished Cuddy were here to hear it. They could have been describing them as much as they were describing Nora.

"Iron deficiency," said Cameron, clearing her throat. House hadn't even noticed she was back. He wondered now if she had read anything into his laugh. She seemed to have a ridiculous radar when it came to him and women. That would be a drawback to hiring her back. Bur here she was, perfectly embodying the benefits of her possible return.

"Iron deficiency is sometimes associated with loss of reflex control. Also, with restless leg syndrome."

"There's nothing in the history about restless leg-"Thirteen began.

"I know," Cameron said, "there isn't. But, restless leg is associated with Persistent Sexual Arousal Syndrome, and Nora and Ron, they could have missed it."

House challenged, "How do we get from iron deficiency to febrile syndrome?"

Cameron stopped for a moment, then jumped excitedly to the answer. "Maybe it's metabolic. She is getting enough iron but not metabolizing it, leading to the reflex problem and a burden to her organ systems alerting her immune system."

"Go test," House asserted, "I have some idiot interns to lecture."

After he had finished his lecture, House headed over to physical therapy. He confessed to Jerry that he hadn't been able to sleep because of the pain. Jerry gave him a good session, working on his leg an extra 30 minutes. By the time House got back to his office, Cuddy was waiting. She did not look happy.

"You didn't tell me you wanted to hire Cameron back," she said. "I found out at the board meeting while we reviewed your budget and your staffing needs."

"Oooops," House said, somewhat contritely, though it sounded sarcastic. "I meant to tell you yesterday, but you were on the phone when-"

"House, I wasn't on the phone all day," she said, sounding annoyed and a little loud.

"Ssshh," House said, covering his lips. "Cameron doesn't even know."

"House!" Cuddy was exasperated. "You can't put it in a report without talking to her first. And to your boss for that matter."

House looked up at her wide-eyed. "You don't read reports before you have your little secretary copy them for the board? What if I had budgeted for strippers and hookers?"

"House," Cuddy began again. "I am still your boss, the administrator of this hospital. When it comes to work there are boundaries. You have to run hires past me."

House came a little closer now, and asked quietly, "Do you mean I should have consulted Dr. Cuddy, dean of medicine or Lisa Cuddy, my jealous lover?"

Okay, he thought, maybe I went too far. She was out the door, clicking her stiletto heels on the floor as she left. House figured he would pay for that one. He put his head down on his desk as he massaged his leg.

Later that afternoon, Wilson stopped by to see Cuddy. She looked up from her computer screen, "What?" She was annoyed with Wilson, as at this moment she believed he was here to represent House in their scuffle about Cameron. But Wilson didn't even know what had happened; he had been seeing patients all day. She could tell her tone confused him, and she guessed at another reason he might be standing in her office, "Your budgets were approved without discussion."

"Oh, good, excellent," he said.

She saved the document she was working on and gave him her undivided attention. "What?"

"I was just thinking, you know, about Rachel. I don't think you've spent that much spent time away from her, and well, if you're having second thoughts, I understand. I can go with House-"

Cuddy kind of enjoyed hearing the insecurity in his voice. Perhaps she even detected a little jealousy. She remembered House's drunken grope when Wilson had dropped him off last week, and she felt alright about letting him squirm.

"Wilson, you'll be fine," she said reassuringly.

"Well, if you want to go with House, you know, to spend the weekend in New York with him, then maybe your Mom would want to-"

"Wilson," Cuddy said nonchalantly, "If I wanted my mother to take care of Rachel, I would have asked her. I asked you."

"Right," Wilson said, thinking to himself he would never serve House even one glass of Scotch again. He turned to leave and Cuddy got up, walking behind him towards the door.

"I want Rachel to bond with you, James. You're not just House's friend," she said, affectionately now, "you're mine too."

Wilson did not feel any more confident about the upcoming weekend now than he did when he first entered her office, but he was sure of one thing, he would not be getting out of this one.

The day passed quickly for House due to the blur of meetings with his team, the growing pain in his leg, and the deterioration of the health of their patient. While they were reviewing the results of the initial metabolic tests, the beepers started to go off, one by one. By the time they reached Nora she was having a full blown febrile seizure. They ordered the meds and stayed until she stopped seizing. Foreman locked eyes with House as he and Taub pushed her bed towards radiology for a post-seizure scan to check her brain function. It was unlikely that one seizure would have left any permanent damage, but it was hospital protocol to evaluate brain function after grand mal seizures like the one she had just suffered.

House stayed in the room, still cluttered with her kids' mess. They hadn't visited today, at least he hadn't seen Ron or the kids. He wondered how the poor guy was coping with those five kids by himself. He thought of Wilson and the terror he had seen in his eyes at the prospect of keeping Rachel for the weekend, and he chuckled.

Nora really is a harda**, he thought, homeschooling her kids, not allowing junk food and insisting on organic snacks – a real harda**. They probably weren't allowed to melt their brains with tv or anything. No wonder she had repressed sexual feelings for all of those years. She repressed everything.

Nora was stable when he left the hospital that evening. Thirteen was on call and would let him know if any of their tests revealed anything significant. He stopped by Cuddy's office on the way to the parking garage, but she wasn't there. "She had a late meeting upstairs," her secretary explained, and he went home.

**Ch. 34: The "A" Team**

House woke up on Thursday morning in a sea of sweat. Amber had been taunting him again, about the story he made up, the one that wasn't real. His heart rate was off the charts, and the pounding headache had failed to take his focus off of his leg. If he didn't have the hope of that appointment at the pain clinic tomorrow he would certainly have been looking underneath cushions for an errant Vicodin. He hadn't actually thought of the Vicodin, not seriously anyway, until this morning. He wondered if it was Amber's vivid taunt in his dream or the physical pain that seemed to be attacking him from every direction.

He sat in the warm water in his tub for a while, drinking herbal tea and massaging his leg. When the ketoprofen finally started to take the edge off the pain, he got up out of the tub and struggling, got ready for work. He would be late, but this time he truly had no choice. He could not have come in any earlier – he was in no condition. If Cuddy gave him a hard time, he knew he would lose it. He knew he was an a**, he wouldn't deny it, but sometimes he was just plain misunderstood.

That had always been fine with him, being misunderstood. It was nobody's business, anyway, that most of the time he snarled at someone it was because the physical pain was just too much to bear. He knew his team thought he popped Vicodin pills for the high – they had no idea, really, how much pain he was in, and how much it took out of him to keep it together on a daily basis. Sure, he sometimes hid in the clinic and played with his Gameboy, but what they didn't see were the late hours spent pouring over medical journals, researching the very latest cases, carrying the weight of the burden that a patient could walk in tomorrow that could benefit from his sleepless night. He had learned to focus on what was under his control, the medical knowledge, the thought process, the puzzle. Gregory House had decided a long time ago that he didn't need people to like him.

When he finally did make it in to the office, he learned that Nora's final metabolic panel wasn't back from the lab yet. After checking in with Taub and reviewing Nora's condition, House headed over to the clinic to complete his weekly hours. He wasn't hiding from the clinic, for a change, mostly because he didn't want to complicate his already complicated relationship with Cuddy. He knew that later, once they were both secure in their new relationship and in their professional roles, things at the hospital would get back to normal. For now, though, he knew she needed to feel like she was doing her job as well as before. He hoped his comment yesterday hadn't made her question her judgment. He wasn't even sure if he meant it; it just seemed like the right thing to say. He had a special way with words when it came to pushing people's buttons.

He had seen two patients with the stomach flu, one drug seeker – his favorite type of patient since he could relate so easily, one college student with an STD, and he was in the middle of probably diagnosing a good old-fashioned cold when Chase interrupted him in Exam Room 2. "Why do you want Cameron back?" he asked pointedly, ignoring the 34-year-old, hypochondriac accountant sitting at the exam table. The accountant's look went from Chase to House as if saying, well?

"What, no hello, no excuse me, no how are you doing your second week out from the cuckoo's nest?"

Chase looked at the patient, who was now palpably interested in their argument, and opened the door for House to come outside. "She is happy in emergency medicine, House, we are happy. We've moved on."

House responded, "How's her dead husband's sperm? Is it happy too?"

Chase punched the wall next to House. They both remembered the punch House had delivered, knocking Chase to the ground, during one of his terrible imposed detoxes from Vicodin.

House said, "Look Chase, I know you don't like me, you think I was a terrible boss and an even worse teacher – but I'm a good doctor, one of the best. And for whatever reason, some of that rubbed off on three other capable young doctors who used to work for me. One came back, refusing to turn into me. He had no choice, nobody would hire him. The other is making a name for himself as a surgeon; he is good at it and is no longer afraid to take risks. You have to think, as a doctor, you have to know, Cameron can do much more than pull glass out of accident victims or process rape kits on college coeds."

Chase walked away, rubbing his hand. As he reached the end of the corridor, he realized that House had just given him a compliment. He turned back, but he wasn't there. He was probably busy making is patient feel like an idiot, Chase thought, as he made his way towards the emergency room.

House was at rehab when Hanson interrupted. Nora was seizing again, the seizure was longer, and stronger than the last one. House knew they were out of time. He left his session early, hurrying back in the direction of Nora's room. By the time her arrived, the team was there, cooling her off with compresses. The anti-convulsion medications made her drowsy, and she was in another uncomfortable sleep. House headed back to the office, with the team at his heels.

Cameron came running towards them – "The last panel is in. It's not iron," she said. As they entered the room Thirteen made the adjustments to the white board.

House had liked Cameron's idea, iron fit. For some reason, restless legs fit, he thought. That is the kind of thing that a stay-at-home earth mother who homeschools five kids would attribute to the exhaustion of her tedious life. The same would go for her lack of sexual arousal. "Restless legs, keep it on the board," House said.

"Why?" asked Thirteen. "We don't have any evidence-"

"Because it fits, maybe not the metabolic part, but-"

"If you want to look at restless leg, what about vascular malformations?" Foreman said.

"Vascular malformations could explain sensory nerve sensitivity," Taub said, "which could result in the uncontrolled reflexes."

"And the fever?" House asked.

Thirteen added, "Her immune system, responding to the reflexes."

Cameron looked at Thirteen, "Are you suggesting her immune system is trying to protect her from her orgasms?" she said in disbelief.

"It fits," Thirteen said, nonchalantly and looked back at House.

"Yeah," Cameron said, "but we didn't see any evidence of vascular malformations on the scans."

House was busy bouncing the ball. They were on the verge of the breakthrough. The discussion had brought him to the solution, he was sure of it. He kept bouncing the ball. He thought Nora's hospital room again, the organic snacks, the home schooling, and he asked quickly, "Is she a vegetarian?"

"Yes," Cameron responded. "She stopped eating meat two years ago after the birth of their youngest son."

House and Foreman ran off towards Nora's room, with the team right behind them. "Soy," House screamed as he entered the room. Ron looked up from his wife's bedside.

"Yes, she's a vegetarian – that's how she gets her protein."

"How much soy are we talking about here?"

"Everything is soy based; I pay through the nose for it at the health food market. Do you think the soy is making her sick?"

House looked at Foreman, and Foreman answered, as if on cue, "It's not the soy itself, but probably the phytoestrogens associated with it. If she is having a lot of it, and she's sensitive to it, that explains the orgasms, and the orgasms explain the febrile syndrome."

A look of relief covered Ron's face, but then it turned to concern again. "Is there a cure?"

"Burgers and fried chicken should do it," House answered. "Once we flush the phytoestrogens out of her system, she should be fine, as long as she stops ingesting soy."

"That's it?" Ron asked, incredulous. "That's really it?"

Foreman put his hand on Ron's shoulder. "That's really it, Ron. She'll be back to herself in no time." Ron held his sleeping wife's hand and stroked her hair off of her cheek.

Noting Ron's tenderness, House added, "You know, Ron, now that you know what her orgasms are like, you shouldn't let her fake them. You are going to have to work for them – the female body is a tricky place – but it's worth the effort to hear them scream." Foreman looked back at House, surprised by his tone.

When House got back to his office, he brought the satisfaction of solving the case and of working pretty well with his team. Foreman didn't even look that pi$$ed at him today. But Cameron, who was waiting in his office for him, did.

"House, if you want me back on your team, you should ask me. You know, offer me a job," she said, with an edge to her voice.

House thought about it. "What would you say if I asked?" he offered carefully.

"I guess you won't find out unless you do," she remarked as she left his office back towards the ER.

House looked down the hall at her as she walked away, and wondered what was going on with the women in his life. Cuddy had gotten him to open up to her, and now Cameron seemed perfectly willing to make him offer her a job in order to come back and work for him. He suddenly became afraid that in his six weeks at Mayfield everyone had gotten stronger, and he would need to raise his game, and his guard, to maintain control.

**Ch. 35: Still Standing**

Cuddy didn't see House at the hospital on Thursday. She had a busy day, stuffed with meetings and phone calls. Since she would be out on Friday, she had to make a number of additional calls on donors and board members. She knew that House was deflecting every time she said her job was about assigning parking spaces, but she often wondered if he had any idea how challenging her job could be.

Packing her clothes and toiletries for the weekend trip to New York was easy – Cuddy was done in just 15 minutes. Packing Rachel's things for her weekend with Wilson, that was a whole other story. Cuddy was nervous about leaving Rachel. She knew that Wilson would take care of her. She knew that Rachel would be fine. She wasn't overly attached to her mother, she didn't cry when Cuddy went to work every morning. She knew things would be just fine; yet, she couldn't help but feel guilty to be leaving her for the weekend. She already has to leave her for work every day, and though she tries to get home at reasonable times, sometimes, the time gets away from her and she arrives to find Rachel asleep for the night. Those nights are the worst for Cuddy – they are filled with regret and self-doubt.

As she was packing up the playpen, struggling getting it to close, she heard a knock at her door. House stood there, in the doorway, occupying almost all of its space. "I thought I was picking you up in the morning," Cuddy said, as she turned back towards her task.

House put his bag down and grabbed the play pen from her. "I thought you might need some help with Rachel, and getting her stuff together." He struggled with the play pen also, and this made Cuddy laugh. He finally closed it, put it in its carrier, and tossed himself onto her couch for a rest. She walked past him to collect some toys for Rachel's bag, and he grabbed her and sat her on his lap, kissing her cheek softly.

Cuddy turned to House, "Is this your way of saying you're sorry?"

He was kissing her neck now, sending shivers up and down her spine. "If that's what you'd like to think-"

He moved on towards her mouth now. He teased her with his tongue, making hers come seek it. He jumped when he felt a new wave of pain shoot through his leg. He had placed Cuddy carefully on his left leg, for the most part he was practiced in the magic of cripple foreplay and sex. What had pushed on his right leg?

"Gaagaa Eei!" Rachel was standing by them. She was standing by the couch, pushing down on House's leg. She must have used it for leverage to stand up. She was standing for the first time.

"She's standing!" shouted Cuddy, excitedly. House, still in pain, grabbed Rachel's little fingers away from his leg and held her hand up, keeping her steady. "She's standing," he repeated.

Cuddy was carrying her now, hugging her and reciting all kinds of platitudes. House massaged his leg and said, "She's right on target with the milestone, 8-9 months is about right." He was glad Rachel stood today, and not tomorrow for Wilson. Cuddy may never have forgiven him if she had missed it. Now that he thought about it, he was glad he hadn't missed it either. He surprised himself with the sentiment that it was pretty cool to see the demon child grow.

They arrived at Wilson's just at the same time he did. "How were the idiots today?" House gruffly asked.

Wilson thought about the diagnostics class. The interns, they were young and stupid, completely unaware of what would be required of them when they actually start practicing medicine. He had lectured them on the assigned chapters, and they had taken notes. But then, this pretty young blond sitting near the end of the lecture hall, raised her hand and wanted to know when he would start asking them questions. Wilson explained, of course, that he was there as a guest lecturer, instructed to review the material in the assigned chapters. Another hand went up, "Can we work on a differential diagnosis related to the chapter?" They were eager to learn, excited to face challenges. Wilson knew more than ever, there in that lecture hall, that House was one hell of a teacher. Of course, Wilson also knew he would never share that House.

"You were right, they are idiots," Wilson responded.

Cuddy unstrapped Rachel from the car and brought her in as House struggled now to open the playpen. Then Wilson helped House bring in the car seat, the stroller, a humongous diaper bag, a suit case bigger than the one Wilson had used on his three week European tour, and a backpack filled with assorted toys. When they were done, Wilson asked Cuddy, "You are coming back, right?"

House almost fainted when Cuddy pulled out a neatly bound report from her purse. "Here is everything you need to know about Rachel – her medical history, a notarized power of attorney, then here behind the tab you'll find her regular schedule, her likes and dislikes, what she eats, how much, where things are packed, emergency #s, you know, the basics."

Cuddy picked up Rachel one last time, explained to Wilson that she stood up for the first time yesterday so she might be adventurous, and then she gave her a kiss and handed her over. She left quickly, waiting in the passenger's seat for House. House only looked at Wilson, who was perhaps now as pale as someone can be when warm blood is still flowing through their veins.

"Good luck," House said as he walked out of Wilson's. Then House turned back and added, "Keep an eye on the ambidextrous thing too – she might be a genius."

**Ch. 36: Words**

There were still some areas of awkwardness in House and Cuddy's relationship. For instance, Cuddy knew House was painfully self-conscious about his leg and any limits that it placed on his mobility or even his endurance. She could sense his discomfort when he would sometimes struggle a bit to get up, or when his leg would unexpectedly cave after he had been standing on it for a while.

While her instinct would be to try to hold him up, or to offer her help in these circumstances, she knew it would probably be best to turn away a bit and give him privacy. She didn't want to take the chance he might push her away or that she might unintentionally encourage him to build up the wall that had stood between them so long.

When House told her about the hallucinations and the breakdown that night at her place, she tried not to talk. She knew her words could only deter him; they could keep him from using his. When he confessed the pain at his apartment the other day, the night he was drunk, again, she bit her lip and let him talk. When he told her the story of his father's abuse in slow whispers, all in one breath, again without stopping, she knew to keep quiet. She sensed this, that there were some things he would share, but not out of a desire to talk about them. And she respected this. But it did make things awkward at times.

For instance, she had let House drive her car to New York. He didn't ask, he grabbed the keys from the table when they were loading the car and then opened the passenger's door for her, as if that is how they always did things. Now, she knew he was in pain – she saw how long he had taken in the shower in the morning, and how he had allowed her to work on his leg – she knew the drive might be uncomfortable for him. He would probably be better off in the passenger's seat, free to stretch his large frame and work his leg if he needed to. But she was afraid to suggest it, afraid to remind him about his disability, afraid he would take it the wrong way. So yes, some things were still awkward.

They had been in the car for about 20 minutes when ABBA's Dancing Queen erupted from House's cel phone. Cuddy knew that was Wilson, and she grabbed it quickly from the dashboard. "Yes," she said. "It's okay. You scared me. Those are just rough estimates. Thanks."

Cuddy laughed when she told House that Wilson was concerned Rachel had started her nap earlier than her written schedule indicated. House chuckled and put his right hand over her left one, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She was suddenly moved by his tender touch, and her eyes began to water. Of course, over the past several days he had touched her many times, and in many places, but mostly he touched her while they were kissing, or engaged in the love making. He hadn't held her hand, or put his arm around her, or anything like that just for affection's sake. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tear drop, and he held her hand tighter now, entwining his long fingers with hers. "Why are you crying?" he asked cautiously, fearing her answer.

"I guess because I'm happy, happy scares me," she said, surprising herself with her honesty.

"I know what you mean," House answered softly. "Happy scares me too, miserable is easy, not scary at all."

She knew she had more to say. There was still so much they hadn't talked about. The words came without warning. "I am sorry about so much, House – for removing the muscle in your leg, the ketamine coma, McNeil and the cortisol" – she was crying now. House checked his mirror and pulled over to the shoulder of the highway. He kept holding her hand, and he looked at the road ahead of him. His own eyes watered, but he didn't cry. At least, he was able to keep the tears from flowing.

He hated thinking about the infarction. He hated thinking about that moment when he woke up from the coma and understood he was in post-op instead of in his private room. He hated thinking about the sad relief he could read in Stacy's expression that day; she knew it was over between them way before he did. He lost so much that day, and Cuddy, she had played a role in it all. "Don't do this Cuddy, don't look back. Just don't."

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and looked up to the road again. She didn't know why she had done it, why she reminded him about those horrible events; maybe she did it to ease her own guilt, or even out of the fear that these things would hang over them like a dark cloud if they weren't addressed. Still, she felt like an idiot. She had tiptoed around him for two weeks and now, when things are at their best, she brought back the past, and brought it back hard.

House took a deep breath, and said slowly. "I wouldn't be alive today if you weren't my attending that day. You have to know that. The ketamine – we had talked about it, you knew I would want to take the risk. You know me better than Wilson does, you always have. The cortisol was his idea, I don't blame him – I get why you guys did it. It's done, it's history-"

She looked away from the road and turned towards House. He didn't make eye contact with her; he was still fighting back tears and looking at the road in front of him. "Every time I see you struggle," she began, "or I see the pain in your eyes, I know I caused it. While you were at Mayfield, all I could think was that I had done that to you."

He inhaled deeply again, "I can play the same game, you know, and think about every stupid thing I've ever done or said – I can go back further than you too – all the way back to Michigan. That was on me. I," he was faltering, his words were difficult to choose, "I should have gone to the naming ceremony, I shouldn't have said that awful thing about Rachel-" His voice finally broke. He was mad at himself, for the ways he had hurt her, and for letting these thoughts hurt them now.

"Damnit Cuddy," he said, looking at her finally, penetrating her with his stare. "We've hurt each other before and we'll do it again. Things just happen the way they happen. There is no god to blame, we can't blame each other, and we have to stop blaming ourselves." He took a breath and continued, his voice much softer now, "But if there is one thing I am sure of, I would bet my piano, my guitars, my bike, my career on this, it's that you have saved my life three times now - first after my infarction, then when you hired me, and again two weeks ago by giving this old, broken bast*** another chance."

Cuddy knew he meant it, he meant every word. Nothing else was needed. There weren't any other declarations or vows or promises made on that drive to New York. There was a comfortable, quiet silence at first, then some jazz from the satellite radio station. Their hands remained joined for the rest of the ride.

**Ch. 37: Adventures in Babysitting**

Rachel had fallen fast asleep just 20 minutes after they left. This made Wilson nervous. Actually, everything about Rachel made him nervous. Sure, it had been great visiting Cuddy after Rachel finally went home with her. That was a treat, a wonderful distraction from his overwhelming feelings of grief after losing Amber. But then again, he didn't need to take care of her back then. He held her a few times in those early days, so Cuddy could take a shower or prepare a quick meal, but Cuddy was there with him, ready to carry her if she cried or needed a change.

And since then, he really hadn't seen Rachel all that much. Cuddy had hired her nanny, and he had been busy trying to keep up with House. It had been a difficult year for all of them, horrific really, but things finally had started to look up. Wilson looked at the sleeping baby, and remembered suddenly that he was terrified. He studied the schedule that Cuddy had given him, and looked at his watch. She normally doesn't start her nap for another hour. He touched her forehead softly and felt her pulse. She seemed fine. He called Cuddy to be sure.

Reassured that the times Cuddy left for him were just ballpark figures, he settled down on his couch and put his feet up, keeping an eye on Rachel sleeping in the play pen. He had leafed through a few journals, and flipped through a few channels when Rachel finally stirred. She had turned over, and was stretching her little arms over her head when Wilson heard it. It was a quiet little gas that erupted from her tiny little tush. He would have missed it had he not been eyeing her so closely. He came closer to admire her cuteness when he started to smell it. Wilson had seen, touched and smelled a lot of bodily secretions in his years as a doctor – his specialty of oncology gave him many opportunities to interact with all kinds of bodily fluids and waste – yet he had never smelled anything remotely as bile or rancid.

Rachel went from stretching to crying in a matter of seconds. She was crying hysterically, too, a loud, piercing cry. Wilson froze. He did not know what do first. Should he carry her? Should he look for a diaper? Did he need to consult the binder? There were many thoughts running through his head – and the one that was leading at the moment was the one that was telling him to call House and Cuddy and get them the hell back here.

Eventually, when he got used to the volume of the cries, he was able to think things through a bit and actually look through Cuddy's manual to identify the bag with the diapers and diaper changing materials. He felt foolish when he saw everything he would need was in the diaper bag. He placed her carefully on top of his bed, grateful that he had returned the water bed – he is sure he would have lost her in there. Rachel kept crying, and squirming, but he did manage to get the diaper off and wipe her clean. He used almost all of the wipes in the diaper bag – and he was grossed out entirely – but he was still proud of himself. He had done it. James Wilson had successfully changed a toxic diaper. Next he placed the baby back in the play pen while he disposed of the diaper. He tripled bagged it and tossed it in his trash can in the kitchen. After washing his hands, more thoroughly than if her were going into surgery, he returned to the living room to check on Rachel.

She was standing at the edge of the playpen, shining her bright, beautiful eyes at him. For a moment he was sure he saw Cuddy's eyes. How could that be possible? He picked her up and sat her on the floor next to him as he pulled some toys out of the backpack. He played with her, tossing toys to her and having her reach for them. Son of a bi***, he thought to himself after a while, House is right. She is ambidextrous. After a while Rachel started to get fussy again, and Wilson started to get nervous again. Checking the time he realized she was probably hungry. The thought of her dirty diaper almost prevented him from feeding her at all, after all, if she didn't eat she would be unlikely to produce another one of those. He reluctantly headed back to the Cuddy's manual to see about lunch. Not too bad, he thought. Everything was prepared and packed in the bag. He brought Rachel to his kitchen and sat her in the portable high chair that House had brought in. He prepared himself a sandwich and set up her lunch. They ate.

Sure, it was messy, and he ate less of his own lunch than if he had been sitting with House, but still, he walked away with another feeling of accomplishment. He thought to himself, this isn't so bad. If I can do this, maybe House can too. He thought again about his two best friends. He had struggled for years to make them admit their feelings for each other. In this past year alone he had worked tirelessly to try to get them together. He was sure that they were the perfect match for each other.

Stacy was too weak for House. She had loved him, and he had loved her, he wouldn't have fallen apart the way he did when she left if he didn't, but still – she was too weak for him. She didn't know how to handle him, how to ignore him, or how to manipulate him when it was required. House forgave her for the decision to remove the dead muscle. If Stacy had been tough enough to hang on just a little longer, a week maybe, at most a month, everything might have been different. But she wasn't strong enough; she needed outward signs of House's forgiveness and approval. And House wasn't ready to give those to her.

There was Cameron too. No one could deny, not even House, that he had been attracted to Cameron. She had certainly fallen for him. But again, even the smart and beautiful Dr. Allison Cameron would not prove a suitable match for House. She wanted to fix him; he did not want to be fixed, at least not at the hands of another. He had done well to keep his distance from her. While Wilson had thought, at the time, that a little flirtation would be healthy for House, House seemed to know better. He kept his distance from Cameron, in much the same way he sent Stacy back to Mark. At the time, Wilson felt that his friend, the supposed misanthrope curmudgeon, was actually quite the romantic, sparing the feelings of those he cared about when it really counted.

And that is the reason Wilson knew that Cuddy would be the only possible route to happiness still left open for House. She was as strong as he was. She was as brilliant and successful too. She was also as arrogant. If House got together with Cuddy, he wouldn't need to fear that he would drown her in his miseries. Cuddy knew how to swim. House wouldn't need her to save him; together they could save themselves.

The schedule told Wilson that Rachel was probably ready for her afternoon nap. He cleaned her hands and her face, successfully changed her diaper again, and held her as he paced up and down his living room. He had been feeling nostalgic, thinking about love and relationships and House and Cuddy, and inevitably his mind and his heart turned to Amber. He couldn't really share his memories with House; he could think of no way to do it without hurting him. He didn't share them with Cuddy either, since he sensed that Cuddy had never really liked her. Today he did have someone to share it with though, and as Wilson held her little head close to his shoulder, Rachel began to hear the story she would hear many times throughout her life, the story about the time her Uncle Jimmy fell in love with Princess Amber.

**Ch. 38: No Pain, No Gain**

They entered the clinic waiting room together, and they made their way to the reception window. It was strange for both of them, of course, to be on the other side, knocking on the glass, putting his name down on the call sheet, providing insurance information and so on. Working at PPTH they had little need to seek outside medical care. The procedure was almost foreign to them.

Cuddy and House were in luck, though, because the waiting room did not look too crowded. There was an old married couple on one side, an older woman and what looked like her adult daughter on the other, and a mother with three children, two in a double stroller and one toddling around, right by them near the window. As House impatiently filled out some forms, Cuddy smiled at the children, observing especially the steps of the tiny toddler. House had a game in mind as they waited. He challenged Cuddy to determine who the patient was in each group and then to come up with a diagnosis for each.

That's the thing with House, Cuddy thought. There is always a challenge, always a game to be played. And she loved it.

"The man," Cuddy said, looking at the old married couple.

"Why?" challenged House.

"Because women have a higher tolerance for pain than men do," Cuddy responded, "and he'd be more likely to cave and come to a pain clinic."

"Ooouch," House answered, "that hurts. But seriously, you need an actual reason, one that involves, you know, deduction, not sappy generalizations."

"House, you have solved some of your most difficult cases with sappy generalizations – everybody lies, people don't change-"

"You are deflecting Dr. Cuddy – I need a diagnosis for our elderly pain patient."

Cuddy felt pressured. She knew that House had probably already filled a white board in his mind for each of the three patients that were waiting for their appointments along with them. She wanted to impress him – no, actually, it was more than that, she wanted to win. She thought critically as she observed the couple.

The old man was rubbing his hands and looking down towards the floor. His wife's head leaned back on the chair and her eyes were closed. Cuddy imagined the wife had stayed up most of the night caring for her husband, trying to ease his pain. She wondered to herself if that would be her with House in 25 years. She pushed the thought out of her mind and continued studying the picture. The man bent over to pick up a magazine from the rack next to him. She could see the effort the action required written all over his grimacing face. His movement was limited; his joints seemed stiff. Cuddy turned to House and said, "rheumatoid arthritis." She said it with confidence, she was sure she was right.

House smiled evenly. "Not bad," he said, "not bad at all. Is that your final answer?" he quipped.

"Yes," Cuddy responded, still looking at the couple, standing by her answer.

"Good news and bad news," House declared. "We'll start with the good. You are correct that he has rheumatoid arthritis. Poor bast***."

"So I win," Cuddy celebrated.

"Not so fast, Dr. Cuddy," House responded, "bad news is he's not the patient, she is."

"Why?"

"Because she suffers from chronic migraines-"

Cuddy interrupted. "How do you know she suffers from-" But Cuddy stopped herself, noting the position of the old lady in the chair, with her head leaning back and he eyes closed tightly. "Sensitivity to light," Cuddy said.

"Facial pallor, cold hands and feet," House added, noting her hands were in her pockets and her feet were double-socked.

Cuddy was about to say that the old lady could really just be tired from a long night of taking care of her husband when the window opened and the receptionist said, "Mrs. McMahon – the doctor can see you now."

House looked over at Cuddy, who shrank in her seat a bit. "Don't worry Hot Lips, that's why you assign the parking spaces and I save the patients no one can save."

A couple of hours later House and Cuddy met with the specialist. He examined House's leg and reviewed the chart, which already included the new bloodwork they had just completed about an hour ago. Cuddy could tell that House was different now. He looked defensive, even surly. The man was proud, she thought, and he didn't like admitting his pain. She wondered if it was a good idea for her to be here with him at all.

"So, the pain is worsening?" the doctor began.

"Yes, that's why I am here," House responded.

"The ketoprofen, it isn't helping or it isn't helping as much as it did at first?" the doctor asked.

Cuddy hoped House could keep it together for this moron and not make a scene. "It brings the pain from a 10 to a 6, and when I first started it at Mayfield, it was bringing it to maybe a 3." House figured he would try to answer questions clinically to avoid the sarcasm he really wanted to use.

"Well, the blood work is good – liver and kidney seem to be in good condition," the doctor said, almost surprised.

House was relieved to hear that he continues to escape the consequences of the years of Vicodin and alcohol abuse. Well, he did have to commit himself to Mayfield for six weeks, but other than that…

"Dr. House, Dr. Cuddy, I think you both know the options here. We can try a nerve block, we can try electrical stimulation therapy, we can go with methadone – which you seemed to have tolerated before, we can try the antidepressant route – new studies claim they can regulate pain signals-"

"What do you recommend, doctor, knowing his history?" Cuddy asked. House looked at her carefully. He couldn't believe she was asking the moron, this idiot, for his opinion. Between them Cuddy and House had over 40 years in medicine, they were already busy saving lives while this kid was taking his SATs. She sounded like the helpless wife of one of his idiot patients, not like a doctor.

The pain doctor, a bit intimidated by the couple sitting before him, said blankly, "Nerve block will offer the most pain relief."

House jumped in now. "I am a diagnostician. I can't be tethered to a regimen of pain shots that will keep me from functioning for blocks of time. And I won't accept the long-term effects. Nerve block and electrical stimulation therapy are out."

Cuddy was surprised by his answer, by its finality. She could see that she wasn't here to be a part of his decision.

"And while your chart might say that I tolerated the methadone," House added, "I almost killed a patient while I was on it. I had to hire hookers to watch me sleep in case I went into cardiac arrest. Methadone is off the table."

Cuddy stood up and tried to keep calm. "House," she started, "can't we discuss the pros and cons of-"

"No," House responded.

The pain doctor, sensing the tension, chimed in with the only option left at the moment. "Doxepin, adapin, sinequan – these are the antidepressants that have shown the most promise for their off label success with pain management."

House thought about it. "Antidepressants can alter my mood, the way I think," House started.

The pain doctor responded, "Actually, when we are treating chronic pain we use low doses, nothing like what a psychiatrist would prescribe to treat depression. There should be minimal side effects, perhaps a bit of a dry mouth, some constipation, but nothing more, other than the regulation of pain." The doctor handed House and Cuddy a fact sheet for each of the options.

"The problem, Dr. House, if you choose this route, is that—"

House didn't let him finish, "I know, antidepressants won't start to work for at least four weeks."

"Even if we started you on treatment today, you would need another option to get you to next month," the doctor said. "Your kidneys and liver are functioning well - I think in the short term you could consider a controlled regimen of Vico-"

"No Vicodin," House said sternly.

"I know you have concerns," the doctor continued, "but we can regulate the dosage to prevent any-"

"Does no mean the same thing in New York that it means in New Jersey because I am starting to wonder," House said in his surliest tone.

The doctor extracted himself from the room to let Cuddy and House talk and come up with a decision regarding his treatment. But they didn't talk. They just sat there, at the little conference table, not talking. Finally, Cuddy asked, "Why am I here? Why didn't you bring Wilson, or better, come by yourself?"

He looked at her. "You are pi$$ed when I lock you out, and now you are here and—"

"You are still locking me out," she finished for him.

His look softened to the realization that she was right, "The Vicodin almost cost me everything, Cuddy. I can't take that chance. I won't take that chance."

He looked desperate and she understood. She understood the things he didn't say, or the things maybe he did say in his own way. If he started with Vicodin again, even on a controlled dosing schedule, he was afraid he would lose himself to the addiction.

When they left the pain clinic with free samples and a prescription for more, they were both more scared than hopeful. While the sinequan offered at least a hope for relief in the coming weeks, they both knew there would be plenty of pain and darkness to travel through before that.

**Ch. 39: All That Jazz**

As they headed back towards the car it occurred to Cuddy that she had no idea where they were staying or what their plans were for the weekend. She wasn't even sure if House wanted to go through with the weekend, based on his erratic behavior at the clinic. Cuddy took a deep breath, accepting as she had many times over the past few weeks, that life with House would be filled with ups and downs. She did not regret one minute of their relationship though – as a matter of fact – she knew they were right for each other, she just had to remember to brace herself and ride out the big waves. He was worth it.

House asked her to drive, then he settled into the passenger's seat, maneuvered it back so he could stretch his legs, and started rubbing his leg furiously. "I'm happy to drive, House," she said, "but I don't know where we're going."

House smiled. "I made reservations at the Plaza," so you can head towards Central Park.

"House," Cuddy said, surprised.

"I know, I know, I give the impression that I am a penny-pinching miser," he said, "but I just haven't had anything to spend money on until now."

She put her hand on top of his leg, acknowledging his compliment. House was grateful that his gift with words ran both ways – he could make her as happy with them as he could make her miserable. He thought, for the rest of the weekend, he would aim for happy.

They checked in and realizing they were both starving, they decided to shower and head downstairs for dinner. They talked and laughed easily over their meal. It was comfortable. After dinner, they headed out into Manhattan and House hailed a cab. "The C-Note," House said to the driver.

"Where are we going?" Cuddy asked, following him into the cab.

He looked at Central Park saw the couples holding hands as they walked and the joggers running happily by. "Cuddy, there are a lot of things I can't give you, like a beautiful stroll down the moonlit park, but there is this one little place – I think you'll love it." Cuddy sat back in the cab, feeling his arm around her. Maybe he finally understood that the things he couldn't give her didn't matter to her one bit. It was those he could that meant everything.

They arrived and were able to grab a table near the stage. The C-Note Is not as big or as popular as the Blue Note, and that is why House loved it. The people who came here were not coming to listen to the jazz as a curiosity, they were not here simply to say they had been here, it was not a tourist destination. There was no t-shirt shop, and the house band wasn't visited by professional musicians. The people who came to the C-Note loved music. They understood that the way the notes run together say as much as the right words in the right order in a sentence. For House, and for many of the patrons of the C-Note, music was far superior to words.

Cuddy was enthralled by the bar, by the music, and by what it did for House. He was more relaxed than she had ever seen him in public. He seemed free from burden entirely. As House flagged down a waiter to order some drinks, one of the performers by the stage eyed House and came over excitedly. "Greg, where in the hell have you been? We haven't seen you in months."

House smiled easily and said, "Actually, Bill, I have been in hell, but am happy to report I'm out now. This is Dr. Lisa Cuddy," House added, awkwardly remembering his manners.

Bill smiled and said, "I knew you would be bringing a woman one of these days, Greg, it's about time." He shook Cuddy's hand as she chuckled, and turned back to House. "Will you join us for a set? We'll be on in about 10 minutes."

Cuddy's eyes almost popped out of her head. House looked over at her, as if asking her permission. "Please play," she said, adding, "I would love to hear you."

They sat for a few minutes, slowly sipping their drinks. Lisa couldn't stop thinking about this mystery sitting before her. How is it that after all this time he could still surprise her? House got up to head towards the piano. As he did, she grabbed his hand, pulled him back and said, "Hey, do you realize this is our first date?"

He made a face and leaned in close to her, "You are a bigger slut than I thought, putting out before the first date." Cuddy squeezed his hand and he was off.

She could not believe what happened next. As the jazz ensemble came together on the stage, they introduced House as a guest pianist sitting in with them for the set. The band started to play, and Cuddy watched House. He was keeping the rhythm for the piece, playing repetitive chords and serving as the framework for the saxophone and the trumpet. She knew House could play, she had heard him several times, and each time she was moved by his talent and emotion, but this was different. He was playing for an audience. He was comfortable behind the piano in a bar full of strangers. He was moving fluidly to the rhythm he had established. It was beautiful.

That's when it happened. The rhythm changed, it slowed, and the bassist started to keep the new rhythm, while House began to carry the melody. His long fingers strolled all over the piano with ease. He was one with the keys, and with the melody they produced. The notes were divine, and Cuddy thought, for a moment, that she was in heaven. It was powerful to see him create something so majestic. She loved watching him solve a case, but that was his rational, clinical side. This was his heart. She was so moved, in fact, that she was still flushed when he got back to the table. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes," she responded, still mesmerized. "Is it okay if we go now? That was enough foreplay for me and I don't think I can wait any longer."

Now House was the one who was surprised. He put enough money on the table to cover their tab along with a generous tip. He liked this place. He liked it even more now that it had this effect on Cuddy. When they arrived back at the hotel they had to share the elevator with a group of high school kids who seemed to be at the Plaza for some kind of seasonal formal. It was too bad, because Cuddy really had the inclination to jump House right there, in the elevator. Instead it was the kids who were all over each other, making Cuddy a bit uncomfortable, and making House pity them. Those poor boys have no moves, he thought to himself.

The teens exited the elevator a couple of floors before House and Cuddy. House stuck his head out of the elevator before it closed and he said to them, "Don't forget boys, no glove, no love!" and the doors closed, nearly decapitating him. Cuddy pulled him back in and kissed him deeply. He pulled back and said, "You do realize, I may have just saved a poor clinic doctor in Manhattan from a waiting room full of crotch rot."

"You know," she said, "I'm not such a sure thing you can start talking about STDs and gross me out and still get me in-"

He interrupted her with a kiss, and the elevator doors opened to reveal their floor. They entered the room and he took off his jacket and lay it on the chair as she slipped off her heels. She sat on the bed and he jumped on it next to her, grimacing a bit. She turned towards him, had him lie back and started massaging his leg for him.

He said, "You know, I told those kids they should wear condoms, but, we haven't exactly been the model of safe sex."

Cuddy kept working his leg and responded, "Oh, I had you checked out, it's in your exit report from Mayfield, they did a complete physical."

He laughed and said, "I was worried about you Cuddles."

She faked a bit of indignation and responded, "Me? I'm not the one who engages in sex with hookers."

"Past tense," House said quietly.

Then he added, "And you're right, but how do I know how many ballroom dancers you've done?"

Cuddy was working his muscles harder and harder, "Well, you know at least I didn't do one of them, you made sure of that."

"Not my finest moment," House said. "But I would do it again if necessary to protect my turf."

She smiled, letting that one go. She remembered that night when House interrupted her date. He looked so jealous and helpless standing on her doorstep. She was angry he had ruined the evening, but that was the night she started to believe that House might be interested in something more than their dysfunctional friendship. House watched her as she worked his leg furiously, pushing and pulling, relieving the tightness and soreness.

He said, "There's another reason people wear condoms."

Cuddy stopped now, and met his eyes with hers. "I don't think we have to worry, House. You know my history; I'm not exactly fertile Myrtle."

House caressed her face as she lay down next to him. He moved her dark curls away from her eyes. "It wouldn't be tragic, you know, if it happened, if your demon child had a little brother to pull her pigtails and keep her genius tush in its place."

Did he realize he had just told her he could picture them as a family? Cuddy smiled at the image, and kissed House softly on the mouth. Soft kisses soon became wet, passionate kisses that hungered for more. His hands moved all over he body, just as they had glided over the piano keys at the bar. The clothes came off slowly, mostly because they did not want to stop kissing each other, their mouths, their faces and necks – they were all over each other with a ridiculous desire, a desire that exploded from every pore. Each time he kissed her he wondered what could have possibly kept him from her for the past 20 years. He took off her dress and she unbuttoned his shirt. They connected again for a kiss, regretting they had stopped for even a second. Slowly, more and more clothes came off until they were finally naked. Now they were ready to explore each other and taste each other thoroughly. She couldn't believe the way House could make her feel. Maybe he had spoiled her with their experience in college. Maybe he is the reason no other relationship for her ever had the hope of succeeding. When they had finished and the tingling waves of their climaxes had subsided, House curled around her, spooning her as they drifted off to sleep.

**Ch. 40: Bugs**

The shrill sound of Hanson resonated through the hotel room at 2:30 a.m. Cuddy turned over, mumbling, "Answer your damn phone."

House struggled to open his eyes. "I don't know where it is," he said groggily, while Mmm Bop kept playing. "House," she complained, putting a pillow over her head.

He was up, holding on to the bed for leverage as he fumbled his way in the darkness to his jacket. He grabbed the phone. "What?" he said, sounding excruciatingly annoyed. It was Foreman on the line, sounding more serious than usual.

"I'm at the hospital, Cameron called me, Wilson brought Rachel to the ER."

House didn't say anything. He looked at Cuddy, still covering her head and ears with a pillow, her naked body only half-covered by the bed sheet. Foreman continued, "fever, diarrhea, vomiting at a pretty fast clip-"

Starting to gain his focus, House asked, "How high?"

"106 when she came in, that's why I'm-"

House hung up because there wasn't going to be a single thing he could do on the phone. They had to get back to PPTH. He had to tell Cuddy. He started to turn on the lights and throw items in his bag. "House, what's the-"

"It's Rachel. Wilson took her to the ER with a stomach virus."

"What?" she asked, her voice shaking a bit as her heart rate went up.

"She has a fever, vomiting…the usual suspects. It's a stomach bug," he said, straining to keep his voice and demeanor calm. She was rummaging through her things and dressing quickly. They both knew they had left Rachel in the hands of a very capable doctor. If he had wound up taking her to the emergency room it was because he was seriously alarmed. They were out the door, looking quite disheveled and pale, within the next 5 minutes.

The ride back to New Jersey was vastly different from the ride to New York the day before. Some things were the same – House was driving, Cuddy was crying, his hand was on hers – but the fear running through their hearts and minds made everything different, it made everything darker.

Cuddy let go of House's hand and started fumbling with her cell phone. "Why won't he answer?" she asked, becoming exceedingly frustrated.

"He's probably with her – there's barely any reception in there, we'll be there soon." House wanted to tell her that everything would be okay. He thought it might make her feel better. But he didn't do platitudes. He couldn't. Making Cuddy feel better right now was not going to do a thing for Rachel. It wouldn't reduce her fever, or keep her from getting dehydrated. And it wouldn't eradicate whatever bacteria or virus was hurting her. It wouldn't be even be necessarily true. That's the thing about platitudes. "We'll be there soon," he repeated, grabbing her hand again.

At the hospital, Cameron was busy keeping a watchful eye on Rachel. They had run initial tests, bloodwork and urine – Wilson had even thought to bring in a soiled diaper for a stool sample. There was nothing to be done until the results came back. Cameron and Wilson both stayed with her, trying to keep her comfortable. "She was fine one minute," Wilson told Cameron, "and then suddenly she started crying and puking and…"

"You did the right thing," Cameron said. "You shouldn't wait on a fever with a baby. We get 10 kids in the ER every week with the same symptoms. They all go home after a few hours of IV fluids." Cameron touched his shoulder, "She's going to be fine."

Wilson ran his hand through his hair. Rachel looked so weak, nothing like the child he had played with just a few hours ago. Her eyes were set back and glossy. She was expressionless. "Does she look somnolent to you?" Wilson asked, with some agitation.

"Wilson," Cameron responded evenly, "She looks like she has a stomach bug, she's dehydrated and running a fever."

Just then, Foreman came in with the initial results. "White count is through the roof, urine and stool was clean."

Wilson grabbed the report. "We should test her marrow, with a white count this high-"

"Wilson!" Cameron interrupted. "It's not leukemia. She has a virus. The white count is up because she is fighting it."

Foreman looked over at Wilson and nodded to show he was in agreement with Cameron. Foreman said, "We are all hyper because it's Cuddy's baby, it's a virus."

Wilson sat back down next to Rachel and stroked her hair softly. Cuddy came running in the room a little while later; House had dropped her off while he went to look for a disabled spot in the emergency room parking area. By the time he found them, she was holding her baby, tears flowing from her freely. House stood by the door next to Foreman. He didn't enter the room.

Cameron started to give Cuddy the test results. Noting House's discomfort, Wilson came to the door and walked him out into the hall. "What the hell happened?" House asked.

"She was fine, all day she was fine. She went to sleep and then suddenly she was throwing up and her temperature was up," Wilson said, scratching his eyes. House peeked back in the room, where Cuddy was still holding Rachel, listening carefully to Cameron.

"House, you should go be with her," Wilson said. "She needs you."

House looked at Wilson evenly, "There's nothing I can do."

"Just be there, that's enough."

House looked from Wilson back to the room. His feet were glued to the hall; he was unable to move them inside the room. There was so much emotion in there, so much fear. It was too real, too palpable. He did want to be there, he did want to hold Cuddy and Rachel, but the truth is he didn't know what that would accomplish. He had mused, just a few hours ago, with the idea of them being a family, and now, he was unable to play his part.

Cameron was examining Rachel, checking her ears again, when she noticed she seemed to be a bit stiff. Cuddy noticed it too, and as she made eye contact with Cameron, Rachel threw up again. Rachel started to cry softly, her temperature rising again. Cuddy said, "I want an LP."

The very next moment an ER nurse poked her head in the room to tell Cameron they had another patient, an 18-month-old boy with the same symptoms.

House turned to Foreman and said softly yet firmly, "Assemble the team."

**Ch. 41: Too Close to Call**

"House, these patients are in the ER, they're Cameron's, we can't-"

"Two patients, there could be an outbreak-"

"You're too close to this, your judgment is compromised," Foreman responded. "It's a virus-"

"We are all close to this," House snapped back.

"House, I called you because Wilson was overwhelmed, and I knew if he was with Rachel, you were with Cuddy," Foreman said. "I've known since you got back. Just let the ER do its job."

House looked back down at his hands and flicked his cane against the wall in frustration. There was nothing he could do to help. The one thing Cuddy probably wanted him to do he couldn't, and now he found out that Foreman has known about them for weeks. Cameron came out of the room and requested an LP kit from the nurse. She sent one of her ER docs to run the history on the new patient. "We have to rule out meningitis," she said to House. An LP would not be pretty on a sick little 9-month-old baby.

Wilson was looking at House from across the hall, almost willing him to do something, anything, to make this easier for Cuddy. Wilson was afraid that this was the moment House would screw everything up for good. As Cameron came back with the kit, House forced himself to follow her in the room. It is almost as if Wilson was making him move with his stare. He went up to Cuddy and asked her to leave the room for the procedure. "No, I'm okay," Cuddy said, "I want to stay."

"Cuddy," House said, locking eyes with her. "Go get a cup of coffee with Wilson; let me do this. Let me hold her for it." Cuddy wasn't sure why she did it, but she listened to House. She left the room with Wilson and waited. She knew she could have handled holding Rachel for the LP; sure, she was scared, and it was hard to watch Rachel suffer, but she could have easily held her for the test. She could tell, though, that House needed to do this, he needed to participate, he was trying, and she decided to let him. Cameron noticed the tone and feel of their interaction and she knew she had lost her bet in Chase's pool.

A few minutes later Cameron emerged from the room with the vials of CSF. House was still holding Rachel when Cuddy came in and he said, "It looked clear, we'll know for sure in a couple of hours."

He walked out of the room to talk to Wilson and Foreman. "Doesn't look like meningitis," House said.

"Good," Wilson answered.

House limped over to the doctor's lounge and threw himself on a couch. He started to furiously rub his leg. It was throbbing. His entire body was throbbing. Wilson came in, "You did good, House," he said.

"Really?" House retorted cynically, "How do you figure? Everything is the same as it was – she is still sick and Cuddy is still worried." He kept rubbing his leg.

"Just being there counts House, you can't fix everything," Wilson said softly. He had hoped House had at least learned that while he was at Mayfield.

House got up and headed for the door. "You are right, Wilson," he said deliberately. "I can't fix everything. I couldn't fix Amber. I have fixed hundreds and hundreds of unfixable patients and I couldn't fix the one you loved. That's not going to happen again. Not tonight."

As he limped back towards Rachel's room, he saw Cameron rush in. When he arrived Cameron was busy examining a rash on Rachel's arms. Cuddy said, "It's consistent with meningitis, I want an MRI."

Cameron patiently responded, "It's also consistent with a virus. Let's wait for the results from the LP before we run any more tests."

Cuddy knew Cameron was right. Cameron was calm and she was dealing with the case objectively. If Cuddy were left to her own devices, she would be running every test in the book without rhyme or reason. When she saw that House was back, inside the room but leaning on the door frame, she said simply, "I don't know how I'm going to do this."

House understood her statement. She was not talking about how she would get through the next few minutes, or how she would make it through until sunrise, or even about how she would get through this crisis itself. She was doubting her ability to be a mother, to raise Rachel, to see her through to adulthood. House deeply regretted the time he had told her she would su** as a mother. The truth is, she was great at it.

House took a couple of steps into the room, and he looked from Rachel to Cuddy. With his crystal blue eyes focused intently on Cuddy he said, "You are going to do this the same way you do everything else, Cuddy, with class."

Just then, Cameron came back in with a negative result on the fluid. A nurse followed her with an update on the other child – his condition was improving, his fever was down and the IV fluids had done the trick. Rachel was lethargic, and her fever was still spiking. House looked at Cameron and asked, "Do you have a white board down here I can use?"

**Ch. 42: The Doctor's Lounge**

Foreman changed his mind when he saw that Rachel's condition wasn't improving and he called the team in early on Saturday morning. While Rachel's symptoms were still on par with a regular flu, it was odd that the other child responded so quickly while she still looked lethargic. Her fever was still spiking, and she had developed a rash on her torso and arms. The vomiting and diarrhea were being controlled with meds now. Without asking House, Foreman took the lead on the DDX.

Taub and Thirteen were seated at the dining table in the middle of the ER doctor's lounge. Cameron had a couple of white boards brought in, and House was busy filling one with symptoms and the other with the diseases that have been ruled out. Foreman turned to the team and asked them to start.

Looking at the board, Taub said, "Stomach virus."

Thirteen added, "Wait, maybe it's, oh, let me see - Stomach virus. That's it. Can we go now?" Her tone was sarcastic and shrill, even on Foreman's ears.

"Look," Foreman said, "I know it's Saturday morning, but this is Cuddy's baby. She's been running a very high fever for several hours, and if there is any chance this isn't a regular virus-"

Taub interrupted before he could finish. "I know it's Cuddy's baby, we all want Cuddy's baby to feel better, but are we going to be working on differentials for everyone in the ER? They have doctors here too."

"We worked 60 hours this week," began Thirteen. "The doctors here can take care of her, she'll be fine."

House smashed his cane on the desk between Taub and Thirteen. "Look," he said quietly, "You are right. This is excessive. Rachel probably has a stomach virus. But I'll be damned if I'm going to take the chance that this is something more, not when I can still do something about it. So to be clear, Foreman called you for me. This is personal. You can do this for me or not – you'll still have a job on Monday if you walk out, so if you don't want to be here, go."

Wilson had entered the room just as he was finishing the speech. He could see this experience was taking a lot out of House. He looked tired and weathered. Worst of all, he looked scared. He had said this was personal – that admission alone proved House was near the point of exhaustion. Wilson knew he was in physical pain, too. Yet here he was, trying to do what he did best. He really did love her, Wilson thought, he hasn't run away.

Chase walked into the room and stood next to Wilson. He wasn't in his surgical scrubs; he was dressed in blue jeans and a t-shirt. This meant he wasn't at work, he had come in only to help. "Where do we start?" Chase asked in a serious tone. House must have been tired, because he was moved by Chase's presence. Thirteen and Taub stayed as well, and together, they all started to throw out ideas.

In a matter of moments, charts were being passed around and lists were being written on the white boards. They had a color system – green for most likely, yellow for possible, red for least likely. They were prioritizing possible tests to run in the event Rachel's condition didn't start to improve soon.

After about 45 minutes of nonstop action, the voices fell silent. They had come up with everything they could based on Rachel's labs and the progression of her symptoms.

"Genetics." House said, adding another avenue for them to explore. He turned to Wilson, "You have the power of attorney Cuddy left you, get a hold of the biological mother's file. It's medically necessary. Take Taub with you and fill another board with genetic possibilities."

Foreman turned to House – "Should we venture out? Toxins in Cuddy's home?"

House thought about Cuddy's home and about Wilson's. He didn't think there was anything there – but he couldn't be sure. He sent Foreman and Thirteen to check both homes.

Then Chase said, "Is there anything we are overlooking? Should I get a history from the biological father?"

"No," House said quickly. "We have the file on the mother, and let's leave it at that."

The adoption wasn't final yet, and House didn't want to fan any flames on the parts of Rachel's biological families. He knew that Cuddy worried they might change their minds and ask for custody – he didn't want to take the chance, especially if it wasn't medically necessary yet.

"The abandoned apartment building," House said flatly, realizing this building probably held their answer.

Chase said, "She was there nine months ago – it isn't likely anything she picked up there-"

"She was a newborn, no immune system, the place was probably crawling with toxins, she was in the hands of two crack addicts for god's sake when Cuddy found her," House said, in a daze. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that this could be serious, that this could be bigger than he had ever thought possible, that this could be something he couldn't fix. Why hadn't he thought about this before? He should have checked her out months ago. Why didn't Cuddy think of this? How had they missed it?

He started to search his mind for anything he might have read about limited asbestos exposure and infants, about lead poisoning, about anything that could have been in that building and could have hid inside of little Rachel until now.

"House!" Chase said, as he watched the anxiety build in his former boss's face. House snapped out of it and looked at him; he was pointing to a computer in the corner of the lounge, "You can log into the server there to search the database, I'll bring back samples from the building."

A couple of hours passed and House had filled up yet another white board with relevant toxins and their effects based on his research. Cameron came in to give him updates on Rachel's condition, and to check on their progress with the differential. Cuddy didn't leave Rachel's side. At some point, Cameron had chips and drinks brought in to keep them going.

Wilson and Taub came back first, pushing another white board, filled with Rachel's biological mother's history. House was busy studying it when Foreman and Thirteen came back with a box filled with cleaning supplies from Cuddy's house. Their box from Wilson's was emptier, but it did seem to include a sample of mold. They read off possible toxic agents and filled another board. Chase came back to announce he was headed towards the lab to analyze some of the mold he pulled from the floorboards and the pieces of ceiling he brought back from the apartment building. Planning to spend some time in the lab, he picked up the boxes Thirteen and Foreman had brought back as well. Taub and Thirteeen headed out with him. There was organized chaos in the doctor's lounge with everyone throwing out ideas, tossing dry-erase markers around adding and eliminating contenders from the boards.

A couple of hours later Chase, Taub and Thirteen came back with a report of the toxins they were able to identify. There was asbestos in the abandoned apartment building. Before they had a chance to consider the consequences of the exposure, Cameron rushed in. Smiling, she said, "Her fever broke. She's responsive again and looks much better."

Smiles stretched across the faces of everyone in the room. House didn't smile. He hurt too much to smile. He merely walked over to the first white board, the one with stomach virus written near the top, and he circled those words.

Cuddy came in after Cameron; she had no idea where everyone had gone. It had been hours since she had seen House or Wilson. She had chalked it up to the male inability to deal with difficult, emotional challenges. She didn't blame House, not in the least. This was a lot, and he was already dealing with so many changes. And the man hated change.

She looked around the room, and noticed all of House's fellows, present and past, smiling and comforting her with pats on the shoulder as they headed out the door. She started to figure out what House and Wilson had been up to while she was with Rachel. Wilson gave her a hug, a hug that said he was sorry she had been so shaken, that he was sorry this had happened under his watch. "It's okay," she said. "Rachel is okay."

House was still by the white board where he had circled stomach virus. He was standing, slumped somewhat over his cane, overcome by relief, pain and physical exhaustion. Cuddy came over to him, "I can't believe you did this."

"I didn't know what else to do," he said contritely.

Cuddy held his face in her hands and said, "This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me."

House looked at her and then looked around the room. It was a mess. There were journal articles, charts, half-eaten chips and cans of soda strewn throughout the room. The white boards were a mess – all six of them. He said, "Really?"

"Yes," she said, grabbing his hand and heading with him back to Rachel's room. "This beats the desk."

House couldn't help himself. "Will you thank me the same way?"

**Chapter 43: The Prodigal Duckling**

The weekend had turned out nothing like House expected. He thought he would find more immediate pain relief for his leg – and it turned out the relief may not come for another 3 to 4 weeks. He thought he would spend the weekend making love to Cuddy and he ended up regretting stopping after the first climax that Friday night after the jazz club. House actually made a mental note to never do it just once again, just in case.

Cuddy had spent Saturday night in the hospital with Rachel. Cameron had wanted to keep Rachel for one night as a precaution; to be sure she was hydrated enough before she went home. In his paranoid mind House imagined Cameron kept Rachel overnight to keep him and Cuddy apart. In either case, Cameron didn't need to worry; there was no appetite for sex with a sick baby around. House picked up Cuddy and Rachel at the hospital early Sunday morning. He stayed with Rachel while Cuddy took a shower and got a couple of hours of sleep, and he found Rachel to be whiny and fussy. Naturally, that made House whiny and fussy. Not needing two children to care for, Cuddy sent him home. He was so exhausted he barely managed to give her a$$ a good grab before he left.

Monday morning House woke up in his bed after another dreadful nightmare featuring Amber. The dreams were getting to be more frequent and he wondered if they were related to the increase in leg pain. He went through his normal morning routine, except everything took twice as long since his leg hurt so much. By the time he had finished his warm bath some of the pain had subsided, and he thought he just might be able to make it to work. Once at PPTH he went straight to his diagnostics class, then rehab, and finally to his office. It was well after lunchtime when he arrived.

The team was in the conference room, discussing an old file and looking for alternate diagnoses for the patient. This is how they sometimes stayed sharp when they had no actual patients. Reviewing a message left by Cameron on his desk, he sent them straight down to the ER to clean up the mess they had left in the lounge on Saturday. A few minutes later, Cameron appeared in his office.

"How did Rachel do after we released her?" she asked quietly.

"Good, other than needy and whiny," he said awkwardly, looking down at his desk. "Kept the fever at around 100 until Sunday night, and by this morning it was gone." Cameron's immediate presence in his office told him she had left him the message about the mess to clear his team out of his office so they could talk. This worried him.

"Is she holding down food?" Cameron asked now, clearly avoiding what she really wanted to talk about.

"Clear liquids, applesauce, you know the drill," he answered, hoping he could wish her back to the ER before she said something stupid.

"So," Cameron said, and House braced himself, thinking, here it comes, "You and Cuddy," and she stopped there, much to his relief. He knew this part would be difficult, the part where their colleagues know and want to talk mush, but it was harder than he had imagined.

"Yes," he said, "me and Cuddy."

"Good."

"Good." Pretty painless so far, he thought.

"Was there something you wanted to ask me, House?" Cameron said.

"No," he responded, confused.

Cameron looked annoyed and headed towards the door.

He hadn't meant to upset her. As a matter of fact, after Saturday, he felt like he owed her a great deal. "Are you okay?" he asked, trying to sound sensitive.

"What?" Cameron exclaimed. "Am I okay? What, with you dating Cuddy? God, House, I've been over you for three years. I'm married. I couldn't be happier for you, or more okay with it," she said.

"If you don't have the hots for me, then why are you mad?" he asked, oblivious to her concerns.

"You idiot," she answered, "I thought you were going to offer me a job in diagnostics."

"Ohh," House responded, remembering their conversation last week. He thought about Saturday, and how she handled the pressure of caring for the boss's kid. Of course he still wanted her back on his team, but if he could get away with not asking her it would be even better.

"So," he said, "you're here because you want the job, not about me and Cuddy." There – that should do it, he thought. Manipulation came so easy to him; clearly she wouldn't want to talk about him and Cuddy, so she would have to talk about the job instead.

Cameron had intended to make him ask her, but House's choices threw her off. "I love the ER and I have done good work there but on Saturday I realized I would much rather be in the lounge with you guys figuring out the puzzle than in the room with the patient. I understood what you had been professing all those years - that solving the puzzle saves more lives. I want to be a part of that." She was mad at herself, knowing she let him manipulate her, but at this point, she didn't even care, she just wanted back in on the team.

"Well then," House said nonchalantly, "we'll just have to clear it with the Dean of Medicine."

House barged in to Cuddy's office quickly, with Cameron trying to keep up right behind him. On his way down to her office, he considered whether or not he should call first, then as he got closer he thought maybe he should knock. Finally he decided to come in as usual. It was hard for him, to get used to the fact that their relationship had changed, when so much of their relationship at work was still the same. Yet he found himself wanting to be nicer to her as a boss, and he tried furiously to suppress that urge and treat her as he always had.

Cuddy looked up from her desk, clearly happy to see him. "I am so sorry about this weekend, House." House could tell the tone she was using, and he tried to warn her this wouldn't be a private meeting, but before she understood, she said, "I planned to suck the very life right out of your-"

"Cameron," Cuddy tried to recover while House looked sheepishly at the floor.

"Dr. Cuddy," Cameron said nervously, unable to look her in the eye. "House said Rachel is better, that's great." Cameron looked back at the floor.

Cuddy was still not finished turning all shades of pink and red. Her embarrassment did ridiculous things to House's desire. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way, not even with Stacy. Those were five mostly good years they spent together, but he didn't have the inclination to jump Stacy every time he saw her during those five years. He needed to regain control of himself and his feelings for Cuddy at some point, he just didn't know how or when it would happen.

"Well," Cuddy said to House, aware that he had been enjoying her embarrassment way too much. "What can I do for you?"

House had to look down at his feet for a few moments before he responded, because he could think of several ways to answer that question that would do neither of them any good at this moment. Finally, he said, "Cameron wants to come back to diagnostics, and since I haven't filled Kutner's slot," and then he stopped. Saying Kutner's name kind of jarred them all away from the silliness of the previous exchange. They were quiet.

"Anyway, the slot is open, and unless you have any concerns," House said.

Cuddy looked from House, to Cameron, and back to House. House knew she had a say in his hiring decisions. House knew that the conversation about Cameron wasn't over. House knew she was angry he had put it in his budget report to the Board without asking her. She was livid that he had marched in here with Cameron to make it impossible for her to say no. He was, she told herself again as she had many times before, a manipulative bast***.

"What about the ER?" Cuddy said to Cameron.

"Oh," Cameron began, "I enjoy the work, I really do. I just think I have grown a lot as a doctor, and I am starting to understand the good we can do through diagnostics and research can help many more patients than I can see one-on-one in the ER."

Cuddy rolled here eyes. "This isn't a job interview; I meant, how do you suggest we fill your vacancy in the ER, you are a supervisor."

Ouch, House thought to himself. Score one for the Dean of Medicine.

"Dr. Eliot Gray – he is definitely ready to manage. I have been working with him over the-"

"I know who he is, I hired him."

That's 2 points for the confident Dean, 0 for the nervous Dr. Allison Cameron, thought House.

"Get back to the ER and start training him. You can go back to House when Gray is ready to take over for you."

"Thank you," Cameron said before she left.

House made a move towards the door as well, then he turned and said, "I don't suppose you still want to suck the life out of my-"

"Goodbye, House."

**Ch. 44: Secrets**

Life went on for House and Cuddy. Slowly, they slipped into "normal." If they were together, then they were together: ordering pizza at his place, cooking together at hers while Rachel played in the playpen, playing the piano together – oh, and of course, making wild love. If they were apart, then they were perfectly fine as well. House hung out with Wilson or went on solitary bike rides, Cuddy took Rachel to the mall or attended her conferences. The relationship kind of fell into place – almost naturally, without too much effort. After four weeks together, they had still only been on that one date in New York. And that was fine with them, they had gone on with the business of living and working, and they were okay.

At the hospital, they followed their usual routine. He would tease her and complain about the expanding nature of her a$$, she would torture him with clinic duty and constantly remind him he needed to be available for office hours to answer questions from his idiot interns. He would insist on ridiculous demands like a flat screen plasma tv for his office, she would congratulate him for the effort, however in vain. While their colleagues knew they were involved in a serious, intimate affair, their relationship at work remained entirely professional, at least as professional as it had always been. Sure, they teased each other softly in quiet moments, but those were just teases. After that night in her office when she thanked him for her desk, they had never been intimate again at the hospital. They never really discussed it as a rule or anything, like everything else, it was an unspoken agreement.

Their sex life during these days defies description. It was organic; it almost had a life of its own. They had two forms – like Olympic figure skaters really – a short program and a long program. Which one they used hinged on the circumstances, but both were equally thrilling and satisfying. Sometimes House had the control, sometimes Cuddy did, and sometimes they shared it. Sometimes they surprised each other, sometimes they repeated the movements they knew drove the other wild with sensation. It was, well, to put it simply, sublime. Sometimes an office battle would be continued during sex – the victim, in this case, would have control and would tease the other and make him or her beg – the victor knew this was coming, knew it was deserved – and they both enjoyed it. They trusted each other completely. Sometimes it was intimate and almost spiritual; sometimes it was animalistic and visceral, sometimes it was even a game. It always ended in delight and collapse. Things could not be better. More than once they had each wondered out loud why they had waited so long to experience this ecstasy.

That's how their relationship looked, on the outside that is, to Cuddy and to Wilson and anyone else who wasn't named Gregory House. For House, things were more challenging than they seemed. The pain continued to increase, the nightmares were growing more vivid and intense, and it was getting harder and harder to keep this from Cuddy. He didn't like to keep anything from her, but he didn't want her to worry, and he knew if he could just hang on a few more weeks, then maybe the sinequan would begin to help him. If he could only hang on, he wouldn't need to let his personal miseries batter at her peace so he was intent on suffering through his private hell all alone. That is, after all, the way he had always done it. The only difference is there was no Vicodin now to keep him company, only pain.

He woke up in another cold sweat on Friday morning, the Friday morning that marked the 4 week anniversary of his release from Mayfield. His leg was throbbing in pain, easily a 9 on the 10 point pain scale. He massaged it furiously and took a ketoprofen. He tried to will his heart to beat more slowly, taking deep breaths and swallowing hard. It wasn't Amber this time who taunted him in his nightmare, it was his bast*** father. In the dream, John House stood in front of his son, dressed in his Marine uniform, and yelled at him, the way he always had when he was growing up. In the dream, his father's contorted face came right up close to House's and screamed, "There you go, scr**ing everything up again. You aren't worthy of a woman like Lisa Cuddy. Are you crazy? You do belong at the psychiatric facility – checking in there is the sanest thing you have ever done. You idiot." House kept rubbing his leg and recalling the vision, the taunt. "You are weak.," his father yelled. "You have always been weak, like a little girl. By the end of the day you'll be scoring some Vicodin however you can. That's what you always do."

Of course, House knew it was just a dream, just a nightmare. The crisis of pain started to pass just a bit, and House was able to get up and get himself to the bathroom for a warm soak. Even though he knew it was just a nightmare, he couldn't get the words out of his mind. Those were the same words Amber said to him the night of the delusion. He didn't deserve her. After his bath he did feel a bit better, maybe the pain was down to a 7, but he was still couldn't imagine himself at the hospital. He didn't think he would be able to function. He called Foreman to inform him he was taking a personal day – he had a new Girls Gone Wild video to catch up on. House was relieved that Cameron would be able to join the team by next week. In the event he couldn't function so well in the next couple of weeks, at least she would be there to pick up some of the slack. He drank a swig of Scotch and headed back to bed. His sheets were still wet from his sweat over night, and he struggled as he changed them. In a couple of hours he awoke in more pain, the sheets soaked with his sweat once more.

It was midmorning and Cuddy had just come back to the hospital after her meetings downtown. She wasn't sure why, but she felt a bit anxious. While things had been moving a long well with House, she had the feeling that he was in pain and he was trying to keep it from her. She knew the sinequan couldn't have kicked in yet, and while things had been moving along nicely on the outside, she knew House wouldn't tell her if he was suffering on the inside. She looked for signs of his private struggle all the time and she could really find none, at least not obvious ones.

Foreman had gone to Wilson after receiving House's call. He couldn't be sure if House was just being House and really planning to spend the morning watching topless girls kiss each other, or if House was just being House and suffering his leg pain alone in his apartment. Over the past three weeks, Foreman felt that he had come closer to knowing the real Gregory House than ever in their 6 years working together. So the call, which he normally would have chalked up to House's general a$$hood, gave him cause for concern.

After Foreman left his office, Wilson called House immediately. He got no response. Wilson called Cuddy, and that feeling, that uneasy feeling that had been sitting at the bottom of her stomach – exploded. She made a few calls to clear her afternoon schedule and headed to House's place. Wilson had wanted to come, but she insisted it had to be her. She could get through to him, she was stronger. Wilson loved House dearly, but he couldn't argue that point, Cuddy was stronger.

**Ch. 45: Graduation Day**

He didn't answer her knock, but then again, she didn't really expect him to. She let herself in with the key he had given her earlier in the week. "House?" she called out nervously as she looked through the apartment for him. "House? Are you okay?" she continued looking for him, fearing what she would find. There was an open bottle of Scotch on the living room table, as she headed towards his bedroom she saw the condition of his bed – the fitted sheets were pulled off, balled up and wet. "House, where are you?" she continued, her heart racing faster. She was bracing herself for the sight. Every moment that passed without her seeing him was pure anguish as she thought of that Christmas years ago, when House had nearly killed himself by overdosing on alcohol and Vicodin. "House!" she said when she finally found him, sprawled on the floor or his bathroom.

He was in his boxers and a soaked t-shirt, lying on the floor face down. He must have fallen asleep there, she thought, after a futile attempt to abate the pain with Scotch and another furious leg massage, at least that's what she hoped. "House," she said touching his forehead and grabbing his wrist to take his pulse.

He pulled his hand out of her grasp. "I'm alive," he said, adding tersely, "unfortunately."

Cuddy said, "Here, let's get you up and-"

"I don't want to get up," he answered. "I want you to leave."

"Well," Cuddy said, mustering up her strength, "that's too bad, because I'm not going to leave."

He looked so tired and old, so broken, that she hardly recognized him. House still hadn't looked at her, he hadn't made eye contact. He didn't want to see her expression as she witnessed his misery. He thought of the dreams - of his father, of Amber, of him not deserving her.

How could he do this to her? How could he be this burden for her for the rest of her life? How could he do this to Rachel? How? He was a useless, crippled, bitter old man. No, if he loved her, if he really loved Cuddy, he had to let her go, to let her be free from him and his cra*.

"I said, get out!" he yelled forcefully.

Cuddy stepped back at his tone, but she did not flinch. She was not sure from where she summoned the strength. As far back as she could remember, she had always had to be the strong one – to solve family problems, to get through medical school, to rise to her position now, to face the Board of Directors on a regular basis and meet their challenges – she has had to summon strength many times. She understood, though, that this would be the defining moment of her life, this moment, now. She was walking a tight rope miles above the ground, but if she didn't have the strength to move forward without looking down, she knew all would be lost.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "No," she said quietly but defiantly. "I won't leave."

"Don't you get it? I don't want you here," House said, now firmly resolved to the loss of the one thing, the one person, who had brought him the only happiness he had ever known.

Cuddy didn't think he would physically hurt her, but she had only heard this menacing voice twice before – in her office the night he insulted Rachel, and in his apartment after he had received his mother's letter. She was frightened, but managed to say, calmly, "You are in pain, nothing you can say can make me-"

"How about the fact that I never loved you. That I only said that to get in your pants to forget the pain. That this has all been a horrible mistake." He stopped abruptly, then added," That you and the bast*** leech you call a daughter mean nothing to me."

Now, if she thought about what he said, if she processed his words, she would have run out of his apartment sobbing her heart out. But she didn't cry, at least not yet. She didn't let the words sink in. Oh, she would not ignore them. She wasn't sure she would be able to forgive them, but she was not going to let them sink in now when he was in crisis. She stepped back out of the bathroom and closed the bathroom door. She sat on the floor in the hall, with her back to the door. She waited quietly to regain her composure.

When she was calm, when she had words again, she said simply, "I'm here, on the other side of the door. You don't have to see me, but I'm not leaving you like this."

House didn't answer. He sat up in the bathroom, and dragged himself over to the door. He sat with his back to it, as she did on the other side. He concentrated on the soothing sound he could hear through the door. He calmed his heart rate with the rhythm of her breathing. He massaged his leg and thought about Cuddy. He thought about what he had said that night in her office about Rachel, he thought about how he had kicked her out of his place after fu***ing her on his piano, and he thought about what he said now. How could he possibly deserve for her to be sitting outside of this door? A tear escaped his right eye. The hole in his heart, the pain of his words and actions, the knowledge of this loss, numbed the pain in his leg.

This time it wasn't his father's words he was hearing, they were his mother's. He remembered his high school graduation. His father had made it back from his station in time for the ceremony. Both of his parents had looked so proud. That night, at his house, he was getting ready to go to a party. The celebration would be at his best friend's place down the street. He couldn't wait to get out of his house. There was only one thing left to do. He had to tell his father he wasn't going to enroll at Annapolis in the fall, he would be going to Johns Hopkins instead. His mother had begged him to go to Annapolis, at least for a semester. She begged him to transfer later, quietly, when his father was back at the base. She wanted to avoid confrontations at all costs. But Greg House knew he couldn't spend the rest of his life appeasing his father. He couldn't put off telling him any longer. He had to do it. He was bigger than his father now, maybe not stronger, but bigger. He wasn't afraid like he used to be.

That was the night his father broke his jaw and spewed the nastiest words he had ever said to him. That was the night that his father's hatred came pouring out in ways House hadn't expected. That was the night he learned how much his father really detested him, and how he could never do anything to obtain his love or respect. Not that he tried, he had stopped trying long ago. But still, fathers, even stepfathers, they are supposed to love their children.

After John House had stormed out of their home, Blythe had come running up the stairs to find Greg. She found him sitting on the bathroom floor where he had fallen, holding his swollen, bloody jaw. "Greg," she said tenderly, "Greg, I am so sorry, I am so sorry. You don't deserve for him to treat you like this. You don't deserve it." He had thought about this night many times, but the thoughts, the nightmares, they always ended with his father storming out after the smack across his jaw. He had suppressed this memory, the one of his mother holding him gently afterwards. The one where his mother told him he didn't deserve it – that instead he deserved unconditional love. He didn't know why he had repressed it. He wished he had repressed the memory of his father instead.

But he remembered it so clearly now that he finally understood why he had pushed this memory of his mother's words down so far. He hadn't wanted to think about what his mother had admitted that night. She had said, "This isn't your fault at all, it is mine, Greg, it's all mine. He treats you like this because of my mistake. I am so sorry, honey." He had believed since he was 12 that his father wasn't really his biological father, but it still had shocked him to hear his mother admit her guilt out loud. Seventeen-year-old House was not fully prepared for his mother's revelation. His mother had continued, "I love you, Greg, I love you, and you deserve to be loved. You deserve to be loved unconditionally." The night had ended there. Greg didn't make it to the graduation party, and the next day he took off for Washington, D.C. He couldn't start college and his new life soon enough.

He was in the present again, thinking about what he had done, how he had pushed Cuddy away, how he had lost the most amazing thing, the most unlikely thing, which had ever happened to him. He knew that even though she was sitting outside this door, back to back with him, willing him to get better, to get stronger, things would never be the same between them. His father was right about that, had scre*** everything up again.

You deserve to be loved unconditionally. He kept repeating his mother's words to himself again and again. He may have already lost Lisa Cuddy, he thought, but he would fight for her nonetheless. He leaned up on his good leg and opened the door.

**Ch. 46: Agape**

Cuddy was still sitting in the hall with her back towards the door. He closed the door carefully so she could continue to lean on it and dragged himself, on his hands and knees, to the wall directly across from her. He faced her head-on. Cuddy didn't move, she didn't flinch, she even looked directly into his glassy, bloodshot, eyes.

Although he was terrified, House didn't waiver, he had no doubts at all about what was required. His words were deliberate, as if each word were carefully chosen, each word loaded with guilt and other, heavy emotions he didn't know he could still feel.

Her responses, her words, were spoken flatly, almost mechanically. Her words were tired of feeling, as if they had gone dry.

"I'm an a**."

She nodded in agreement.

"I scre*** everything up."

"Yes."

He struggled to continue, grimacing from the pain in his leg and in his heart and everywhere else, "I didn't mean what I said before."

"That's getting old."

He took a deep breath and started again, focusing on each syllable.

"You have to believe me, I do love you."

She chuckled sadly, "That's not nearly enough."

"I know."

"You won't let me love you."

"I don't deserve your love."

There, he had said it. He had finally said it to her. The reason for everything he had ever done to hurt her in the past twenty years, everything he had done to hurt her since Michigan, since medical school, it had been based on this idea, on the power of that one little phrase, and now he had told her. But he felt no relief at revealing this secret when her harsh tone slapped him like cold air in the face.

Her answer was lifeless, void of emotion, "You probably don't."

He tried to use the memory of his mother, of her words all those years ago, to help him. What if this whole thing, this whole issue of deserving her, was like a puzzle he could solve. If the one prediction, the one diagnosis he had lived his life by for the past twenty years had been wrong, then he would have to consider the alternative. It was the only rational choice.

"But what if I do?"

"Why? Why would you deserve me?"

Cuddy was trying to help him reason his way through the puzzle. He knew she understood. God, she was that perfect.

"Because everyone deserves to be loved."

"You are loved. Why do you deserve me?"

"I don't know."

"If you are going to believe it you need to have a reason."

"I want to be able to make you happy."

"I was happy until I walked in your bathroom today."

House was in awe of her – she was stronger than he had ever imagined. At least she's talking to me, he thought. Maybe there was still a chance. He scooted himself over so he was sitting next to her. He cupped her left hand between both of his. She didn't pull it away, but she didn't respond to his touch either.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't change anything. I won't be a punching bag."

"I know."

House thought about his mother and her words. He tried again. The words came out even more slowly, as if they were placed on his tongue by some force outside of him.

"I deserve to be loved unconditionally."

"Of course you do," there was the hint of surprise in her voice. Then flatly, "I have always loved you unconditionally."

"I guess I find that hard to believe, so I test it."

"That's a lie. You test me every day, House, but you aren't such a heartless bast*** to test me like that. What you said in that bathroom, it wasn't a test."

House didn't respond. He looked down at his hands, at how his long fingers covered her smaller, softer, more feminine flesh, and he thought about the insult he had hurled at her.

"Why'd you really say it?" she asked, curious now, knowing they both needed to understand this in order to move forward.

"I guess I wanted you to leave so you wouldn't get stuck in this godforsaken hole with me. I'm quicksand Cuddy," he said honestly and sadly. "Everyone around me gets pulled in and gets hurt. Everyone."

Cuddy thought about his answer. It was really the only acceptable one.

She said, "You're not just an a$$, you're also an idiot."

"I know."

"Only an idiot would hurt someone to keep them from getting hurt."

"It sounds stupid, I know."

"You have my informed consent, House. You even let your moronic patients make up their own minds once they have your diagnosis and all of the facts."

House thought about this, he considered a couple of exceptions, but remained silent. Cuddy continued.

In her doctor voice she asked, "How's the leg pain?"

"I don't care about the leg pain," he said, frustrated she had abandoned their conversation for a clinical discussion of his fu***** pain.

House took a slow, deep breath and turned to face her as he held her hand. "How can I care about the fu***** leg when I hurt the woman I love, a woman I need, a woman I'm afraid I can't breathe without."

"Yes, you hurt her."

"And if she doesn't forgive me-" and finally, House lost his voice. All of the leg pain he had suffered that day, the physical exhaustion of the nightmares and the sweats, the memories of his graduation day, the hurt he had inflicted on Cuddy, the consequences of that pain he had caused her, it all came out in a stream of tears, as House sobbed quietly. Cuddy let him rest his head on her shoulder, but she was careful not to hold him. She fought off every instinct to caress him and comfort him. She didn't stop herself out of anger or pain, but more because she didn't want to confuse things. She needed to think clearly.

When he was finally finished, she placed her left hand under his chin and held his gaze, saying, "You have to trust me."

"I do. I will."

"You have to show me you trust me by talking to me."

"I know."

"I begged you to talk to me, to talk to anyone, after Kutner-"

"I remember."

"You can't hide your pain from me."

"I won't."

"Your pain is real, it doesn't make you weak, it just makes you hurt."

"I know."

"You will get through this."

House didn't respond to this one. It sounded empty, like a platitude. He wanted to respond, he knew that more than anything else in the world, Cuddy needed to hear his determination. But he couldn't. The words died in his throat.

This was it. Cuddy knew that if House was unable to hope that things could be better, then everything was indeed lost. There could be no "them." She could not invest more of herself. It wasn't just her anymore. She had Rachel to consider, she had Rachel to raise. She could feel it ending, her love affair with Gregory House, she could feel it dying. How on earth would she bury it and move on?

She gave him a final chance, "The man who checked into Mayfield for me, the man who gave up Vicodin, the man who hurts me to push me away from his pain – I need to know he believes in the future, in our future," she said, her voice finally breaking.

House whispered softly, "I do," then louder and with more authority, "I do."

They sat there quietly a little while longer, and then Cuddy helped him over to the couch and she stayed with him while he drifted off into a deep sleep.

**Ch. 47: Two Weeks Notice**

Wilson's drive towards House's apartment was a desperate one. He knew House was in trouble, that much he had gathered from how long it had taken Cuddy to call him. He couldn't read anything from her voice at all. House had been sleeping and she was whispering into the phone from the other room. It couldn't be good, though, and he worried again for his friend.

He tried to push back his worst fear, a suicide attempt. House had insisted that he hadn't intended to overdose that Christmas a few years ago, but Wilson had never really believed him. The Tritter mess really pushed him, really all three of them, over the edge. He had always worried about House's self-destructive behavior – the knife in the socket, the self-induced insulin coma--House had lived on the very brink of his own annihilation for so long that Wilson had almost given up hope that things could be different for him. But then he checked himself in to Mayfield. He gave up Vicodin. He fell in love. Wilson had just started to believe the darkness had lifted, until he saw the concern on Foreman's expression earlier in the day.

What if House had gone back to Vicodin, buying it somehow on the street? What if he was hallucinating again? If the hallucinations had started again then the Mayfield diagnosis would change from nervous breakdown to a real mental illness – and then the dominoes would start falling and everything would change.

No, Wilson pushed those heavy fears away, and was left worrying only about House's pain and how he would handle it. Then he worried again, this time for Cuddy. He knew House well enough to know he would have lashed out at her. He hoped he hadn't scre*** things up beyond repair.

Cuddy let him in without hanging up the phone – she was talking to her secretary and shuffling some meetings around. House was awake and sitting on his couch, in pajama pants and a clean but wrinkled Rolling Stones t-shirt, massaging his leg. Wilson sat across from him and didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. He waited for Cuddy. She hung up and made another call, it seemed to her nanny this time. House and Wilson sat in silence as House kept rubbing his thigh.

"So, did you really get the new Girls Gone Wild video?" Wilson said to test the waters with House.

House winked and pointed to the VCR, saying softly, "Would I lie about boobies?" He kept rubbing his thigh.

Cuddy came back and pulled a heavy calendar from her purse. She sat next to House, but was looking at Wilson. She started, "The pain is severe, he stopped taking the ketoprofen – he is at a 10 with it, so it's not worth the risk to his liver."

House leaned his head back on the cushion, grimacing with even that small movement, and looked at the ceiling while she continued.

"We need to map out a survival plan for the next week or two, until he builds up enough sinequan in his bloodstream to see if it will help."

Wilson was stunned to see her there next to House, taking over, while he sat back passively in what could only be described as utter defeat.

"Have you called his doctor in New York?" Wilson asked, confused about the dynamic between them.

"He said if we are going to stay away from opiates we will have to ride it out," she answered quickly.

"The physical therapy was helping with the pain," Wilson started, kicking himself into the problem-solving mode that Cuddy had already found.

"Yes, good idea," she said. She looked at House. "I can call Jerry and make arrangements for him to come every morning – that's when it's stiff and at its worst, right?" She headed off to her cell and his bedroom again, not waiting for House's response.

He kept looking up at the ceiling, still seemingly helpless and lost. "She has my ball*, Wilson."

"House, I hate to tell you this, but she has always had them."

House closed his eyes tightly and heard Cuddy come back and talk to Wilson about schedules and taking turns checking on him, and the team and how they would operate without him, and getting Cameron out of the ER and to diagnostics. It was almost an out of body experience to hear them talk about him as if he weren't even there, as if he had nothing to contribute regarding his own pithy existence.

And yet, he had told her he trusted her, he had told her he deserved to be loved, he had told her he believed in their future, and all of these things, all of these promises, meant he had to keep his dam*** mouth shut. He would need to find a way to tolerate the hovering and the attention. He would need to turn in the keys to the car like a punished teenager, and let his parents ground him.

And he would do it too; he had to, because his pride wasn't going to keep him from having Cuddy, not anymore. He swallowed hard, and tried to recall the names of all of the bones in the human body in alphabetical order.

Cuddy and Wilson decided to hire Jerry, his physical therapist, to come every morning and give House a lengthy a.m. session. This would give him some relief during that most difficult time of his day. If House was up to it, then he could go to work, if not, then we would be able to stay at home, soak in a warm bath and take the ridiculous herbal sedatives Cuddy insisted would help him sleep. His department could run without him as it had while he was at Mayfield. Actually, it would run a bit more smoothly since Cameron would join them and House could still consult with his fellows on cases, by phone or in person on good days.

In the afternoons, one of two things would happen. If he had made it to the hospital, then he would work for a few hours upstairs and then head to rehab for another session from Jerry. If he hadn't made it in, then either Wilson or Cuddy would come by his place with a late lunch and hospital gossip to distract him. Cameron had wanted to come, and even Foreman asked Cuddy if he could stop by, but Cuddy knew that things were hard enough on House as it was, he would not want more people to witness his misery.

These two weeks were filled with difficult moments. House could sulk with the best of them when the pain was rampant. Wilson and Cuddy stayed near him to keep him from hurting himself, like the time he smashed his hand in his office to release endorphins and alleviate the leg pain. If desperate enough he would beg for demerol or morphine, or even to be put in a chemically induced coma. He saved these rantings for Wilson since he knew they would have little effect on Cuddy. Cuddy had trained Wilson, though, on the use of the word "no" so House had been out of luck on these occasions.

But random intimate moments were also sprinkled in throughout these challenging days as well. When the pain abated, Wilson and House played poker and RISK and Wilson even tried to hook House on his own telenovela. They talked like they hadn't talked in years, or ever.

One afternoon when it was Cuddy's turn to visit, she had found him massaging his leg while in tears in the tub. Before he had even seen her, she had taken off her clothes and joined him in the warm water, massaging it for him. If this had happened a week earlier, he might have been afraid this was an act of pity, or that this scene was a testament to his weakness as a man, but that day he felt what it was like to be loved, to be loved unconditionally.

Of course, there was no foreplay or sex or physical pleasure during these two weeks. There was no energy for it. There was, for the first time in over 20 years, no desire for it. Cuddy was running from the hospital to House to Rachel and back. She was wiped out. House was battling physical pain on a level he hadn't since the actual infarction. He was wiped out. They both worried, privately, that the physical part of their relationship had died in those two weeks. But they pushed that thought out of their minds in order to get through the days, one at a time.

**Ch. 48: Good Friday**

It was Friday again, 2 weeks since he had tried to push Cuddy out if his life, 4 weeks since he had started the sinequan, 6 weeks since his release from Mayfield, 12 weeks since his last Vicodin. Jerry came over as usual, and let himself in with the key Cuddy had given him. This would keep House from having to get up to answer the door.

"Rise and shine, Dr. House," Jerry called out, with his usually chipper greeting. Jerry knew House would be in the same foul mood as always, but it didn't keep him from trying to cheer him up. Immediately, Jerry found the scene in the apartment unusual.

He could hear coffee percolating in the kitchen, and it smelled good. He could also hear the shower running in the bathroom. As he walked towards House's bedroom, he found the bed was made. Suddenly Jerry feared Dr. Cuddy was there with House, and he had the urge to leave before finding them in a compromising situation. But then again, he did have a responsibility to Dr. House, and he couldn't leave without knowing if he was needed for the rehab session. Jerry decided to help himself to a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and then he sat on the couch in the living room and flipped nervously through a monster truck magazine.

He was relieved when House emerged from the bathroom alone, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a blue button down shirt. "Jerry! Help yourself to some- Oh, you got some, good."

Jerry was surprised by the genuine good cheer he could hear in House's voice. Ever since he had been working with House his voice had sounded, at best, strained. He had never heard him speaking so freely, sounding so at ease. He even looked good.

"Dr. House, you are feeling better?" Jerry asked, cautious optimism springing from his very core.

House was serving himself a cup of coffee when he responded, "5, Jerry, I think I am down to a 5, maybe even a 4, but I am afraid to say that out loud," he covered his mouth sheepishly as he did say it out loud.

"That's awesome," answered Jerry, suppressing his deep desire to run over to the kitchen and hug him.

"I slept like a rock – I have never slept that soundly, well without booze or pills, or both." House sounded surprised, not believing it himself.

He had thought, in the shower, about the 5. The 4. The 4.5. Whatever it was, it was a level of pain he could live with, one he could endure. It wasn't pleasant, but when one hangs around a 9 or a 10+ for two weeks, a 4 or a 5 feels almost divine. And still, he might expect a bit more improvement over the coming week. He couldn't believe the sinequan had worked.

He wondered what would have happened, what hell he might have avoided, if he had started antidepressants years ago the way Wilson had recommended. The battle had been brief, the one where they slipped each other the drugs, but at its conclusion he had determined that he didn't want to feel "fuzzy." The Vicodin didn't make him feel that way, so he had stuck with what worked.

He hadn't noticed any fuzzy effects on the lower dose of sinequan. In the steam of that shower, so much more liberating than the dam*** warm tub baths, he had decided again that anything was possible for him.

"Does Dr. Cuddy know?"

"Not yet," House responded, arching his eyebrows deviously.

"I still think I should work the leg, to give you better mobility and-"

"Work your magic, Jerry, but make it fast, I don't want to be late to work today."

**Chapter 49: Seriously Demented**

House made it to PPTH before 9 a.m. Cuddy wasn't in her office. He had wanted to see her immediately, to share the news that the weight of these days, the horrible burden of his pain, had been lifted. He needed to see her, to stand close to her, to see if he would still feel the heat of their touch. He needed to know that she could still feel it after everything that had happened between them. It had been two long weeks of the misery of the pain, and he needed to be sure "they" were okay.

Instead, he ended up barging into Wilson's office and he had to settle for the goofy smile on his best friend's face when he told him.

"House, do you know that this means?" Wilson asked excitedly.

"Yes," House said sarcastically, downplaying the issue,"It means I don't need to sit in my tub like a baby every morning."

"It means that you did it. You son of a bi***, you did it!" Wilson was standing dangerously close to him now, he had moved around his desk and held House's shoulders firmly as he repeated, "You finally did it!"

House smiled softly at Wilson's giddy excitement and he thought about the past couple of weeks, no, better yet, he thought about every minute since his infarction. Wilson was there, in the background, cheering him on to this moment. Sure, Wilson had been lecturing him, manipulating him, playing games with him, but ultimately, he had been cheering him on, rooting for this very victory.

When Stacy had left it was Wilson who saved him. It was Wilson who helped him through his binge drinking, cleaned up his vomit, made sure he was fed and helped him slowly pick up the pieces. Sure, Cuddy had tried to help, she wanted to, but she was still overcome with guilt over the result of the middle ground operation to remove the dead muscle. In a strange way, House was glad he had the opportunity to share this good news with Wilson first. For better or worse, he had been there with him every step of the way.

House said simply and sincerely, "I didn't do it alone."

Wilson understood that those words were as good as a heart-felt thank you and a hug, and he appreciated it. He leaned on his desk, "So what's next?"

"I think I heard at the clinic they were referring a patient up, so I need to check in with-"

"I mean with Cuddy."

"She wasn't in her office."

"I don't mean right now, I mean, you know-"

"Wilson, I think I will only fulfill one of your life-long dreams for me today. Focus on your own lonely, sorry a$$ for a while." And he left.

House limped with his cane to his office. His limp was obvious, perhaps a bit worse than it had been on the Vicodin, and the cane remained a necessity with a 4 or 5 on the pain scale, it helped him to distribute his weight. Yet, the walk was somehow easier that it had been before. It is a contradiction to consider that the limp was more pronounced, but the walk was more sturdy, more confident, more relaxed. House felt pain, but it was a pain he could function with, a pain he could live with, and this made him feel good. He had functioned those first weeks out of Mayfield with the ketoprofen, but never feeling this good.

"You're here early," Cameron said, surprised, as he entered his office.

Foreman looked up from the computer, "You look good, House. Do you feel better?"

"Like a baby feeding from mommy's full breast, like a geek at a Star Trek convention, like Godzilla in a Japanese metropolis, like a perfectly placed metaphor in a Yeats poem, like-"

"Wow, we get it," said Taub, sincerely, "that's great House, that's really great."

Cameron stood a little too close. "You're not going to hug me are you?" House asked, flippantly.

"I'm just happy for you," she said softly.

Just then, Thirteen came in with a patient file. "This referral is from the clinic," she started, then turned to House and said, "You're here – you look better, good."

"What do you have?" he said, referring to patient file.

"Dementia."

"Then the patient belongs in geriatrics," Taub responded.

"Except he's a 25-year-old Princeton law student."

"With dementia?" Taub asked, incredulous.

Enthusiastically, House said, "Now, that's cool."

"Girlfriend reports changes in personality, mood, behavior, difficulty with decision-making, memory, reasoning, it's a classic presentation," reported Thirteen.

"Maybe he wants out of the relationship and he's too big a coward to tell her," House said.

Foreman jumped in, "You know, just because you would be willing to pretend you are crazy to avoid a conversation about your feelings-"

"Are you mocking my stay at Mayfield?" House asked, arching his eyebrows just so.

"No," Foreman said quickly, "of course not, that's not what I-"

"Oh relax, Foreman," House added "loosen up."

Taub was focused on Thirteen again. "History of substance abuse?" he began, "long-term drug use can lead to pseudo dementia."

"None they'll admit to and tox screen was negative," she answered, looking at the chart.

"What about depression?" asked Cameron. "Severe depression can also result in pseudo dementia, causing some of the same-"

"I'm in the room, people," House added, again trying to make them uncomfortable by pretending he thought they were talking about him. The symptoms did almost fit where he was just a few weeks ago, and he sure had heard enough about all of this at Mayfield. Most of the patients on his floor at Mayfield suffered from dementia.

Thirteen ignored House's antics and tried to press on, "No, no depression. Everything was fine, and then a couple of weeks ago, she noticed he started forgetting things, he was having trouble reasoning, deciding little things like where to go for dinner, where he parked his car-"

House wasn't listening to Thirteen, he was focused instead on Cameron and Taub. "Why are you two looking for pseudo dementia?"

He went on, "Thirteen brings us this patient from the clinic, and she clearly says he has dementia. We've spent five minutes talking about pseudo dementia. Now, believe me, I know we can cure pseudo dementia and we probably can't cure the other kind, but it seems like he has the other kind, so maybe we should focus on finding out why a 25-year-old law student has presented with dementia."

"Since when do you accept a diagnosis from a clinic doctor without checking it out yourself?" Cameron asked pointedly.

House didn't need to consider his answer; he simply passed the file over to Cameron. "Since the diagnosis was made by one of my fellows, one who knows the symptoms of dementia up close and personal and who will probably be exhibiting them within the next ten years," House said.

"You might be feeling better," Thirteen said, "but you're still an a$$." She grabbed marker and went over to the whiteboard. She wrote the patient's symptoms on one side of the board. She looked back at the group.

House's lack of sensitivity didn't really surprise anyone, and they went on with the differential diagnosis.

"Alzheimer's, Parkinson's and Huntington's," Foreman started to rattle off diseases that cause degeneration or loss in the nerve cells in the brain. He tried to pronounce Huntington's in the same tone he pronounced the other two, but judging by the looks from around the room, he hadn't pronounced it the same way at all.

Cameron tried to help. "Alzheimer's accounts for 50% of all dementia cases."

Taub jumped in, "He's not at risk for Alzheimer's at 25. Parkinson's might be more likely, but if he doesn't have tremors-"

"The same goes for Huntington's," Cameron added, keeping Foreman or Thirteen from having to say it. "He should present with coordination issues or tremors before it progresses to dementia. Has he been tested for AIDS?"

"It was negative," said Thirteen.

House had been looking at the file. "Why hasn't anyone mentioned blood vessels. It could be vascular."

Foreman answered, "Multi-infarct dementia is also a geriatric disease, highly uncommon in patients under 50."

"Well," House said, "it's nice to know I still employ a neurologist. I was wondering where he had gone."

Then he added, "Let's start at the top with the most likely, get an MRI with contrast of the brain and a PET scan - look for lesions, tumors, hydrocephalus, encephalitis, get an LP to rule out meningitis, lets try to officially rule out Alzheimer's, Parkinson's and Huntington's."

House was satisfied that he had just assigned tests that would rule out diseases that would probably account for 80% of the documented cases of dementia. When the ducklings returned with results, the board would be much easier to work with, since they would be limited to only the more obscure 20% of the possible causes. They were all almost out the door when Cameron turned back, "What about nutritional deficiencies, B12 and folate can lead to-"

"Good," House responded, adding her idea to the board. "Test for it."

Bringing Cameron back was a sound decision, especially since she asked for the job and he didn't need to feel like he owed her for coming back. And now, with a neuro patient that would be difficult for Foreman and Thirteen, she would be most useful. She already brought the probable causes down to 15% when they continue the differential after results come back. He wasn't expecting the patient to test positive for any of the easy stuff. They never do.

As Foreman and Thirteen headed to the elevator, she said, "I can't believe after everything he has been through he can still be such a manipulative jerk."

Foreman's answer surprised even himself, "House thinks he's helping you by forcing you to deal with it."

"Are you defending him and what he just did?" she asked, taken aback.

Foreman was relieved that Cameron and Taub hopped in the same elevator they were already in, preventing him from having to answer her question. Yes, he thought to himself, he was defending House. The truth is, he had spent much of his time working for House trying to avoid being like him. Recently, he had started to wonder why.

**Chapter 50: Groundhog Day**

He team was busy running initial tests. House called Cuddy's cell phone. He had been at work for over an hour. He was aching to see her, to share the good news, to surprise her, to see her eyes light up at the possibilities for the future, but he couldn't reach her. Her phone went to voicemail and he quickly hung up, annoyed.

He was starting to really feel desperate, like he was starving for her. Yet still, he was worried about the past two weeks and the toll they may have taken on their relationship. These two weeks had been filled with weariness, and underneath it, he wasn't sure if his outburst that day he tried to push her away had actually done just that. A part of him feared that Cuddy was getting him through the crisis, and that after that, there would be nothing left of what they had shared.

He called her secretary, something which he avoided at all costs since the woman despised him, and she informed him Cuddy had returned to the office but was now at a board meeting. That meant Wilson wasn't next door either, leaving House with absolutely nothing to do but think about her. Just as he was going to take a walk down to the clinic to work off some of his hours and keep busy, his beeper went off. He hoped it was Cuddy, planning a secret rooftop rendezvous, but he knew she had no idea he was even at work. Unless, that is, Wilson had told her. He looked at his beeper with nervous anticipation, but it was the team; they needed him in the patient's room.

He didn't like meeting patients unless he needed to. He certainly didn't like meeting them early on in the process. He didn't want anything to affect his judgment when it came to the science, and keeping his judgment sound was much easier to do in a room with a whiteboard. The whiteboard never lied. He also felt somewhat self-conscious about his own disability and his cane. He knew that if he was making snap judgments about the patient before him, the patient was also making them about him. What kind of doctor would he be if he couldn't even cure himself?

He limped over to the room number they left on the beep, and found Coma Guy lying there. House was confused. He started to step out of the room when he heard Cuddy's soft voice call out, "Wait, don't leave."

He found her in the shadows in the corner of the room, behind the patient bed. She looked nervous. She had the habit of biting her lower lip when she was tense, and he found this ridiculously sexy, a real turn on. "What's Coma Guy doing here?" he asked, slowly.

"There was a billing problem with the insurance, I had to-"

"I don't really care, Cuddy." His heart was racing. He felt as if he hadn't seen her in years. "Don't you have a board meeting?"

"I do, we are on a 15 minute break. Wilson told me you were at work. How are you?" she asked cautiously.

Wilson had told her he was here, but apparently he hadn't told her about the pain. She looked hesitant, afraid of his answer, though she must be able to tell he was better. She must be able to see that. He stood on the other side of Coma Guy's bed, directly opposite from her, so she could see him more clearly. She wanted him to see it in his eyes. He wanted her to see that they were filled with hope, with promise. He wanted her to see they were no longer haunted, no longer afraid. He tried desperately to close the space between them with his stare. The intensity almost shattered her.

They walked deliberately to the foot of the bed and stood close to each other. They were so close that she could feel his warm breath on her face, and she could hear his heart beating. He could smell the fruity shampoo in her hair, and he see her lips tremble. Cuddy thought for a moment that if she concentrated, she could bring herself to climax just standing there knowing his lips were so close to her neck, sensing his stubble almost grazing her cheek, feeling his crystal blue eyes dig in to her, with hardly a millimeter between them.

She used every ounce of strength left in her body after these two weeks to pull away from the force field. "I have to get back to the board meeting," she said, disappointed, almost apologetically.

"Okay," he stammered, thwarted, but understanding they would have to wait.

He could see the relief in her eyes. He felt it too. The past couple of weeks hadn't killed the physical part of their relationship, it had merely hibernated, and winter, it seems, was over.

She turned at the door of the room and asked, "What number is it?"

He remembered his promise to be honest, "4, 5 tops."

She smiled easily and headed gladly towards the elevator with the knowledge that a 4 or a 5 might send lesser men to the emergency room, but she knew that for Gregory House, pain was relative and this was a walk in the park.

**Ch. 51: Evil, Cunning Answers**

The team came back to their conference room a couple of hours later with results. They were quickly able to knock all of the diseases House expected to wipe off the board.

"No lesions on the MRI," Foreman reported as House began to erase possible diagnoses associated with lesions.

"What about head trauma?" House asked. Foreman put the film up on the lighted board.

"Nothing," Foreman said, "there is nothing remarkable here. No swelling, no fluid, no enhancement, no hot spots – we've got nothing."

House turned back to the team. "What about the bloodwork from the clinic – hypothyroidism, hypoglycemia – they can lead to-"

"Negative," said Thirteen.

"Okay, I have an idea," House said, losing his patience with the team. "Instead of me giving you ideas and you shooting them down, let's try you coming back with a better suggestion instead. Brainstorming a complicated differential typically requires more than one brain."

Cameron didn't blame him for his outburst. She was actually surprised with the dynamic she had found with this group. When she worked with Foreman and Chase, House really seemed to be tougher on them, to expect more from them. And for the most part, they had delivered.

From what she could see now, Foreman looked distracted, Thirteen looked pi$$ed, and Taub looked overwhelmed as he tried to do everyone's job. She wondered if the lost feeling that she got from them had to do with Kutner's suicide, or House's breakdown.

Cameron stepped forward, "Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease can account for the dementia."

"It fits," said Taub.

"It's rare and he's too young," added Foreman.

House looked at Foreman, then back to the board. "We haven't medically ruled it out, like with an actual diagnostic test, so let's put it on the board. What else haven't we ruled out?" House asked.

Cameron added, "Infections. He could have an infection in his brain that presents without visible inflammation."

House put it up on the board. He then added STDs to the board as well.

"He was negative for STDs in the clinic," said Thirteen.

House added, "Yes, but if our law student went to the Princeton University clinic for some antibiotics to treat his herpes it could have resolved and left him with meningoencephalitis. You need to think, people."

"What else?" House asked.

Taub added, "What about diseases in other sites, the kidneys, liver, even the lungs, those can progress to the central nervous system before giving us other symptoms."

"Good. Taub and Cameron, go scan all of his major organ systems. Look for anything abnormal. Foreman, you're with me. We need to convince Cuddy to approve a brain biopsy."

"What about-"

"Thirteen, you're calling it in. Go back to the clinic and make up some of the hours I missed."

"I found you the patient," she argued.

"And since then you've done zero to diagnose him."

Foreman tried to comfort her with his look before he headed down the hall to the elevators with House.

When they were in the elevator House asked sheepishly, "Was I too hard on her?"

"No," Foreman said. Even though he felt like he was betraying Thirteen, he was getting a little tired of watching her feel sorry for herself and be angry at everyone else. "She's probably having a tough time because of the dementia and the-"

"Yeah, I know the feeling," House said in his goofy tone. "It happens to me whenever I treat a patient who uses a cane."

Foreman looked up at House, wanting to be angry because he had mocked his girlfriend, but he really wasn't. He couldn't be angry because he was just so damned happy have House back at full mojo strength. They entered Cuddy's office without knocking. She had just returned from the board meeting.

"Did they file any new complaints about me?" House asked.

Cuddy smiled, "That would be difficult since you've only seen a handful of patients since you left Mayfield. It turns out, though, that we were able to save a great deal on legal fees in your absence, a fact that did not escape mention at the meeting today."

"Oh come on," House said, "don't make me blush in front of Foreman."

"Why are you here?" she cut to the chase.

"We need you to sign off on a brain biopsy," said House.

"On the dementia patient?" asked Cuddy.

"I love it when you check up on me Mommy."

Annoyed with House's games, Foreman jumped in, "We've ruled out all of the probably causes – we did a brain MRI, PET scan, we checked for hydrocephalus, brain lesions, inflammation or swelling, we checked B12 and folate imbalances, hypothyroidism, hypoglycemia-"

Cuddy interrupted, "What about drug use?"

"Tox screen was negative," Foreman responded.

House kind of enjoyed watching Foreman and Cuddy discuss the patient. He wondered why he didn't bring Foreman with him more often. She seemed a lot less antagonistic when she was dealing with Foreman.

"What about diseases in other organs that can travel to the central nervous system-"

Foreman interrupted, "We're scanning now."

She turned back to House, "Do you have the patient's consent?"

House answered, "Well, you may have missed the bulletin, but the patient has dementia. He has no wife, his parents are dead, no other relatives, so I need a witness so the girlfriend can serve as his medical proxy."

"I'll send someone from legal," Cuddy answered. House was disappointed; he was hoping she would do it. He wanted to stand close to her again, but he didn't get the chance, at least not yet. He was content to look down her blouse while she signed the consent form.

"That wasn't so bad," Foreman said as they left her office.

"House, since you are better, you can take your diagnostics class back on Monday," she said loud enough so he could hear her as they left.

House put his cane in front of Foreman to make him stop and pay attention. "Don't let her fool you. She is an evil, cunning woman. She is an administrator. You have to think fast or she will try to have you to kill your patients with caution."

As they walked back towards the elevators, Foreman chuckled at the notion that maybe House and Cuddy had been sleeping together for the past five years. Their relationship didn't seem to have changed at all.

**Ch. 52: Living or Dying**

Cameron and Taub returned after completing the scans, reporting they found nothing. The team discussed their next move. "The most likely cause left is a brain infection," said Foreman.

House sent them to the patient's room to discuss the case with the patient and his girlfriend. He wanted her to warm up to the idea of the biopsy before he sent the witness from legal to get the consent. Brain biopsies are always risky, but then again, he thought, dementia was not much of an alternative.

Just as House was heading towards Wilson's office, the team returned with bad news. Cameron said, "He's getting worse. He doesn't recognize his girlfriend, he doesn't know why he's here."

"That's short term and long term memory loss," House said, intrigued, as they re-entered the conference room.

"He doesn't know he's in law school, he is confused, he is having trouble with little tasks, like feeding himself," Cameron continued.

Thirteen joined them in the conference room. House met her stare and she said simply, "I completed two hours." Then she added, "What about heavy metals?"

"We'd see it in the urinalysis, or in the kidneys," said Taub.

"Not necessarily," Thirteen added, "if it was absorbed in small enough increments-."

House said, "Maybe Mommy has been right all along and arrogant doctors do find humility in the clinic. Go give him a manicure," he said to Thirteen. She left the room, pleased she had finally come up with a plausible idea.

Thirteen was still checking the patient's fingernails when House and the team entered the room. "Negative, no lines," she announced quietly to House.

"Who are you people?' Robert Watson asked, confused. His girlfriend, Lorraine, answered, "Robert, they are your doctors. I just told you, you are in hosp-"

"Doctors? What? Who are these people? Where am-"

Lorraine turned to Cameron and said, "I've explained it a billion times." She looked exhausted.

"What's going on? Where am I?" he asked again, dazed, but disoriented enough to prevent him from being terribly upset. "Who are you?" he asked his girlfriend again, causing her to roll her eyes and leave his side.

The witness from legal came in and introduced himself and then Foreman explained the brain biopsy procedure as best as he could to the exhausted 23-year-old law student. She understood enough to sign the consent form. "So if you find the infection, you can cure him, right?"

House answered, "We will either cure him or tell you what he'll die of," and he left the room.

Foreman completed the biopsy along with Thirteen and Taub. Cameron worked the microscope in the lab and found nothing to suggest disease. They returned to House, dejected, to find him bouncing his red and grey ball repetitively. "Nothing," said Foreman when he entered House's office.

Cameron began, "Maybe we should refer the case to psychiatry, we have eliminated everything except a psychotic break."

"If we refer the case, undiagnosed, he'll wind up in a psychiatric hospital," said Taub.

"Not an option," said House. He looked at Cameron, "Get a consult, don't make a referral."

Finally, there was a free moment for coffee with Wilson. "If you can't diagnose him, it is out of your hands," Wilson said.

"But there has to be something there. A 25-year-old law student doesn't come down with dementia without cause."

"You've covered everything, House."

"Yeah, everything except the cause."

"Wishing him to have a treatable disease doesn't make it so. You know that better than anyone." Wilson said, "You're letting Cameron get to you. Maybe it was a mistake to hire-"

House interrupted, "It isn't Cameron whose getting to me, it's my fu***ng six weeks at Mayfield that keep me from referring him. He's bright, he has promise. He's 25. So maybe he was going to be another useless lawyer, but-"

Wilson had an idea. "Can you exhume the parents, for genetic testing?"

"They died in a plane crash two years ago, the jet that crashed into the Smokeys."

"Bummer," said Wilson, knowing it was an understatement.

"I'll just have to dig deeper," House said.

"Into the mountains?"

"No, into his brain."

House headed back to the team. "We need another biopsy, this time, go deeper, to the white matter," he said to Foreman.

"No, that's crazy," said Foreman.

House said, "It's the only way for us to know-"

"That's extreme," Cameron said, "even for you. You didn't want me to perform the second biopsy on Foreman when he was sick."

Thirteen looked over to Foreman, apparently unaware of Foreman's own brush with death. "And that's why I don't like to meet patients," House said, cursing himself. "I should have let you because I got lucky finding the toxins in the water."

The room was silent. "Do no harm, House, that's the rule. We can do more harm with the biopsy than by not doing it," said Taub.

"Really?" said House incredulously. "How do you know? If he goes undiagnosed he'll wind up in a facility, alone and demented. If there's a chance-"

Everyone looked down. They knew this was personal for House. They knew he understood better than them what was at stake for poor Robert Watson. They didn't tell him he was too close to the case, or that it was irresponsible to suggest a deeper biopsy. They understood his reasons. They just refused to compromise the Hippocratic oath for them.

**Ch. 53 – The Consultation**

Cuddy found him sitting across from her desk when she came back to the office after an afternoon meeting. He was playing with his cane, lost in thought. She had seen those lines across his forehead many times; these lines were different from the ones that form when he is struggling to figure something out. These lines meant he knew what he had to do but didn't know how to get it done. These lines meant whatever was troubling him was out of his control. She sat in her chair, behind her desk.

"It was negative?" she asked, startling him unintentionally, causing him to drop his cane.

"Yes," he said, picking it up, not surprised that she could read him so well.

"What now? Do you think you have exhausted all of the options?"

House thought about this. "The team thinks we have."

She waited for him to continue, but when he didn't, she began. "Why isn't Foreman with you? I thought you were training him on the art of asking permission for risky procedures."

"He's not here because he doesn't agree with me."

Cuddy knew House wasn't here for the banter or the distraction. "Oh God," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "You want to go deeper into his white matter."

House looked up, impressed she was able to deduce that from Foreman's absence.

"Was this some kind of test House? Did you want to see if I could figure out what you were thinking?" Cuddy asked, exasperated.

His temper was short, revealing his own frustration. "You should know by now that you can only figure out what I'm thinking when I want you to."

"Well," Cuddy pushed back, "I can't imagine why you would want me to figure this out; I can't sign off on it."

House stood up and limped towards her desk. "If we don't try the biopsy, he'll wind up alone and dying in an institution."

"You don't know that, House."

"I don't?" He said it louder than he intended to, and he let the question hang.

Of course he does, she thought to herself.

She softened and walked around her desk, leaning on its edge, directly across from him. She looked directly into his tense blue eyes. "He could be incapacitated."

"He is incapacitated."

"The oath-"

"Suc**. "

He paused, and then continued. "We are just cockroaches, ants, pick your favorite insect, roaming the Earth until something or someone stomps us out of existence. But every once in a while, something happens that we can do something about."

He took a deep breath and continued. "Isn't it better to take a risk and possibly kill him in order to maybe save him, than to do nothing in order to do no harm? Doing no harm, it's usually harmful. He's got nothing to lose."

Cuddy knew his mind was made up. She understood from his posture, from the way he held his shoulders up a bit, that there was nothing she could say to move him from his point. "What does the girlfriend say?"

"I haven't talked to her yet." He turned to leave. He looked back at Cuddy for a moment, locked eyes wither her, willing her to understand his argument, and was out of her office before she could say anything. What a terrible case for House to be facing his first full day back to work, she thought.

The next realization came more slowly. _He wasn't here to get me to sign off on the procedure, he didn't even bring the file or the consent forms. He was here because he wanted to talk about it. He wanted to talk to me about it, _Cuddy thought, surprised with this new development. Had House talked to her about his work as a lover or as her employee? A smile that suggested a new understanding formed slowly on her lips.

She cleared her schedule for the afternoon and began to research white matter brain biopsies. If House got the proxy to allow the procedure, she would need to be ready with an answer regarding her consent. She needed to be prepared in order to make the best choice for the patient and the hospital. She wondered how House would handle it if she said no.

**Ch. 54: Sunshine**

House headed back towards his office wondering if he had done enough in Cuddy's office to at least get her to consider the white matter biopsy. If he had come in with the file and the consent form, the meeting would have turned into one of their regular power plays and he would have left without a chance at the procedure. He hoped that this approach, though manipulative even by his standards - he didn't like playing the Mayfield card with her, might get her to at least consider it.

He was feeling somewhat defeated by what was supposed to be a good day. Actually, it was supposed to be a very good day. He had envisioned he would spend the day walking on sunshine. Instead of enjoying the relief of some of his pain, instead of having lusty sex with Cuddy in the private bathroom in her office, instead of assigning inane tasks to his ducklings for fun, he was dealing with a 25-year-old law student who would probably be committed to a psychiatric facility by the end of the night.

Of course, he hadn't given up. He had no doubt that the promise of the deeper biopsy justified the risk. He would fight for his patient the way he always did. Cuddy's job was to fight for the hospital. His was to fight for his patient. That is why they so often ended up fighting each other. It was that simple.

He had the luxury of not worrying about patients everywhere, or about the wellbeing of other departments in the hospital, or even about his own soul. It helped that he didn't believe in souls. The way he saw things his commitment was to the patient he was diagnosing and to no one else. He allowed himself the flexibility to lie, cheat or steal if it was in his patient's best interests.

Over the course of his career, he had shot a bullet into a corpse in the morgue, he had lied about numerous paternity tests, he had kept the truth about a bulimic patient from the Organ Donor Board, he had ignored Do Not Resuscitate Orders and he had pretty much deceived patients or their loved ones to get them to sign his consent forms. House realized, on his way back to his office, though, that he was able to break the rules more successfully when he had help. One of his personal favorites was the time he had Chase pretend to be a doctor from the CDC in order to convince a patient's mother to let House proceed with his recommended treatment. Chase was such a kiss a** he would do anything he asked.

When House entered his office he found the team still arguing over the white board. He sat down with them and hung his cane on the back of Cameron's chair.

"Have you come up with anything?" he asked.

Nobody spoke up. "That's because you haven't looked deep enough into his brain," he said matter-of-factly.

Cameron said, "We got the consult, they want to admit him upstairs."

"What a surprise."

House was still trying to come up with a strategy to convince any single member of his team to follow him on this one. He had thought Foreman would be the easiest target – but his judgment was compromised by the white matter biopsy that Cameron had completed on him at his request. It had been difficult for him to rehabilitate after that. House had avoided that biopsy for Foreman at all costs. But this case was different – Foreman's faculties were intact when House had tried to avoid the biopsy, Watson's were far from intact. House continued to think he had nothing to lose.

He looked at the team. "If you guys were sure it was a brain infection, then you wouldn't have a problem with the white matter biopsy."

"Right," said Cameron. "It's just not likely, House, so we can't justify the-"

"Medicine, good medicine, requires risks and patience. You are in the far lane on the New Jersey turnpike, and the traffic is keeping you from moving, so you change lanes. Then, the right lane moves free and clear, and suddenly you are stuck in the slow-moving lane and the sucker who had been behind you before is already home."

"I think it's too late for a metaphor, House," said Taub.

"We needed to go deeper into the white matter, traffic was about to start moving."

"We don't know that," said Cameron, and then the beepers started to go off, one by one.

"New symptom," House said as he followed them out the door.

"He hasn't stopped coughing," Lorraine said as the team approached the room. And he keeps grabbing his chest. The team checked his vitals, and while his heartbeat and respiration were up he was relatively stable.

As House approached the room Thirteen said, "We can add dry cough and chest pain."

"That's because it's an infection," House said loudly to his fellows.

"You, out here," he said gruffly to Lorraine.

She was teary and nervous, swaying from her left foot to her right foot. House said, "I'm going to need to call the witness from legal again for another consent form."

"I don't think so," Lorraine said weakly.

"We need to do a deeper biopsy of his brain to find the type of infection," House continued, ignoring her.

"Are you sure it's an infection?" she asked with a feeble voice.

"No," House said, "but if it is, we can treat it. And the coughing and chest pain, it suggests infection."

Foreman joined them in the hall, "Lorraine, he's right, you have nothing to lose. If the dementia has a physical cause, he will get worse and worse without treatment. The deeper biopsy is risky, but the probable infection justifies the risk."

House looked at Foreman, pleased that the new symptom had motivated him to consider the biopsy. If he had known that would do it, he would have made Watson cough a long time ago.

Lorraine didn't respond. She looked at the floor, still shaken by the weight of her boyfriend's deterioration.

"Even if the dementia is the result of a psychotic break, then he can be institutionalized for the appropriate psychiatric treatment after the biopsy," Cameron added. "It won't prevent him from getting the help he needs."

Lorraine still said nothing. Taub and Thirteen exchanged glances and walked out into the hall as well.

"If it was me in there, in that bed, I would want my boyfriend to sign for the procedure," said Thirteen. She looked briefly at Foreman. He understood suddenly that she had wanted him to hear this. This was a living will.

"I can't do this," Lorraine said. "I can't be responsible for this."

Taub took a step forward and asked, "Do you guys love each other?"

"Yeah, we were going to get engaged after graduation," she said, crying again.

"Then you are responsible for this," Taub said. "Love makes you responsible."

"I'm sorry," she said. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, I can't."

"Life is unfair," House said loudly, smacking the bottom of his cane on the floor, losing his patience. "There is no reason for the way things happen, but they happen, and if we don't act, then we've got nothing. It wasn't supposed to be like this, but it is."

"He doesn't even recognize me," she said.

"We can't pick the things that happen to us, sh** happens to people all the time and there is not a damned thing we can do about it," House said. "But we do have control over how we sweep it up. Nothing changes unless we change. The coughing and the chest pain suggest infection. If you don't sign this form you may as well be killing him yourself."

Lorraine had already made up her mind. "He won't even miss me." And she ran past House and the team. Cameron called after her but Lorraine didn't look back.

House stood there for a moment, rubbing his temples.

Cuddy was standing behind him. She had heard most of the exchange. She wasn't just dealing with a dejected House now, but with a dejected diagnostics team. She wasn't sure how, but he had gotten them to rally for his patient the way he did.

"I called legal," she said, startling him, "and the ethics board, and the department head for psychiatry, and I took the liberty of calling a judge as well since the situation is so precarious. I am the official medical proxy for Robert Watson – where do I sign?"

Sunshine. House was walking on it, well, limping on it, once again.

**Ch. 55: The Whale**

Foreman performed the white matter biopsy while House watched. House wondered if it felt strange to Foreman to be working on this procedure, the very procedure that Cameron had performed on him. Once he had the sample, one of the surgical nurses ran it over to the lab where the rest of the team was waiting. After Foreman and House felt secure that the patient was stable, they hurried to the lab where Cameron had just finished preparing the specimen. She placed it carefully under the microscope.

"Well?" House said, losing his ability to breathe as she studied it.

"Cryptoccosis."

The team breathed out deeply and started to celebrate. House slammed his hand onto the table. Cameron and Foreman both recognized his gesture. It was the same slap of the table he had made when he had finally diagnosed his dead patient Esther and the sick little boy from the ER the night of the hospital fundraiser. They had thought he was crazy, like Captain Ahab in _Moby Dick_, not giving up on the old case, but his persistence had saved the boy.

"Fungal – it fits," said Taub, relieved.

Surprised, Thirteen added, "It's usually an opportunistic fungus associated with AIDS."

"Yeah, but who knows," added Foreman, "If he has had any kind of cortisone treatment, like for a rash, or asthma, he could have been more susceptible."

House was looking through the microscope. Without looking up he said, "Start treatment - amphotericin B and flucytosine – and do another LP – it's got to be in his spinal fluid by now, and it will give us a baseline."

The team rushed off. When he finally looked up from the microscope he saw Cameron was still there in the lab, watching him closely.

"What?" he asked gruffly.

"I had always thought that you were broken, that you were bitter and lonely because of your infarction, that you were an a$$ to cover for how vulnerable you feel because of your disability, and that you were mean because you were in pain."

House shrugged, "Cameron, really, you need to stop flirting with me like this, you're married-"

"Shut up, I want to say this." She walked closer to him, as if she were exposing him, "You weren't ever any of those things. You were always just House, you weren't trying to antagonize people, you were just trying to diagnose your patients and you didn't care who you pi$$ed off in order to do it."

"And you wasted all that time fantasizing about fixing me."

"Why do you let everyone-"

"Because I stopped caring what people think of me a long time ago. You worry about being a good person, about making the world a better place. I just worry about being right, and doing what's right – if that doesn't make the world better, I'm okay with that."

Cameron didn't know what to say. As they left the lab, she realized that the closer she came to actually understanding House, her elusive target would move again. He remained a puzzle to her.

Cuddy was sitting across from his desk when he returned to his office. Foreman had briefed her before he had gone to oversee the treatment.

"You took a big risk," House said as he entered the room.

"I was just doing my job," she responded, "sometimes it's more than the parking spaces."

"I know I make things harder for you."

She stood up to face him. "Yes, you do. But you also save lives. I miss practicing medicine, but when I get to be a part of what you do…If it weren't for you, Watson-"

"The treatment will clear the fungal infection," House interrupted, remaining professional as he felt her warmth. It seemed like it was weeks ago that they stood together in Coma Guy's room. "We won't know for another day or two how much of his function we impaired."

"What you said to his girlfriend-"

"Don't get your hopes up," he warned. "I was just trying to manipulate her into signing the consent."

Cuddy started to head towards the door. "Yeah, right. And you're not staring at my a$$ right now."

"I've said crazier things for a peek at your funbags."

"I'll see you later, House" she said as she headed back to her office.

**Ch. 56: Uncaged**

House's first full day back at work in two weeks had turned into quite the marathon. They hadn't even had the chance to make arrangements to see each other that night. She had been busy with paperwork, and he had gone to see Jerry for another session before going home. The pain was stable, but he didn't want to mess with the therapy. He had always believed that hope was for sissies, but the part of him he always tried to ignore was wondering if he could do better than the 4/5 if he stuck with the therapy.

When she opened her door that night, there was no time for a greeting. He didn't ask if she was in the middle of something, or if Rachel was awake, or anything else. He had to have what he wanted so desperately, and if Rachel was awake, well then, they would need to find something for her to do.

As House limped in her doorway devouring Cuddy with his eyes, she said only, "She's asleep." House could see in her eyes that she needed it too. He pushed her against the wall, kissing her deeply while his hands roamed her breasts. He broke the kiss to pull open her blouse and dive into her chest, licking and biting his way through. He had spent the last two weeks being treated like a child, being taken care of by his friends, and he had hated it. He had to swallow his pride in order to accept their help, in order to allow them to smother him, and now all of that suppression had become rage and passion - he desperately wanted to have control.

They kissed again, their tongues crazed with desire, as she ran her hands through his hair. She pulled of his jacket as he nibbled on her neck, causing her to gasp. They broke from the kiss to pull each other's pants down, but his mouth was on hers again quickly, with urgency.

She tried to maneuver him away from the entry hall, to bring him to her bed, but he kept her pinned to the wall by the door. He said only, "Here." He felt like a ferocious animal that had suddenly broken out of its cage. He held her hands against the wall above her head and with force pushed himself inside of her, teasing her at first. She wanted him badly, but he made her slow down. He made her wait. He determined the rhythm and pace.

It had been a long time since he had fu**** standing up, completely standing up without support. Of course, Cuddy sensed this. While they have often misunderstood each other's motives and feelings, they have never had trouble understanding each other's needs. The difference in their heights made the actual act a bit more challenging to accomplish, but it made the foreplay, the little they needed, absolutely fantastic. When they were both ready she stood on the tips of her toes, and in a few powerful thrusts, he sent her shivering to her climax, and with a couple of more bursts, he found his release. When their breathing had settled again, he separated from her and leaned back on the wall next to her.

Cuddy, said, a bit breathless still, "What was that?"

"I believe that's defined as a quickie," he responded, chuckling. "But don't worry, there is more where that came from."

Cuddy throated to him softly, "Are you hungry?"

"Sh** you're perfect," he said, getting his clothes back on.

When she finally had control of her legs again, she headed towards the kitchen, "Why are you getting dressed? I thought you were staying?"

"In case the demon kid of yours wakes up – I don't want her to know what I just did to Mommy," he snarked as an evil grin spread across his lips.

She was in the kitchen already, hunting for the leftovers when she responded flirtatiously without thinking, "That's nothing compared to what Mommy is going to do to Daddy."

She couldn't believe what she had just said. She turned around, hoping he was still by the entrance and maybe didn't hear her, but he was not too far behind her, and based on his expression, he had heard every word. They both stood frozen in place. "I don't know why I-"

"It's okay," he responded quickly, but he didn't look like it was okay, not by a long shot. He looked as uncomfortable in her home as he did the night he came back from Mayfield. They had travelled so far together since then, yet here he has, gripping his cane for dear life.

"Really, House, it just came out, it's not something I-"

"Weren't you going to heat up some dinner?"

Relieved he had changed the subject, she put the leftover casserole in the microwave, mad as hell at herself for what she had said. She was surprised House hadn't run out the front door. Why had she said it? Was the need for a bigger commitment in her subconscious at all? She hoped not, because she was sure that was something he would not be able to give her, and she had already accepted that, at least she thought she had.

They ate in the kitchen, and tried to talk about work and the team. They even tried to talk about Wilson. No matter what they tried to talk about, though, her comment was there, filling the space between them. He tried to get past it, but he couldn't. He needed to think about it, to analyze it, to figure out why she had said it and what it meant. He needed time.

As he brought his plate to the sink where she was washing hers, he said, "You know, I really should go."

"Don't start analyzing it to death, House, it just came out," she said sadly, knowing she had ruined things.

He took the plate she had just rinsed from her hands and placed in the dishwasher. Then he held her softly, moved her hair from her ear and whispered, "It's okay, stop worrying about it."

He didn't offer any further explanation, and she didn't ask for any. He grabbed his helmet and left.

**Ch. 57: Ebony and Ivory**

House was having breakfast with Wilson on Sunday morning when Taub called. Watson had woken up, finally fighting off the anesthetics and sedatives, and he had asked where he was, just once. He was foggy on many details, but he had asked about Lorraine.

"Mojo," House said as he stuffed a ridiculous amount of blueberry pancakes in his mouth, "is a beautiful thing."

"Maybe you just got lucky on this one, don't let it get to your head," Wilson warned.

"Don't worry, Cuddy is the only thing getting to my head," he retorted.

"House, at some point, you are going to have to think about taking this relationship past junior high."

"Wilson, if you were doing the things we are doing in junior high, then-"

"You're deflecting."

House's tone went from sarcastic to serious without warning. "You don't think I know that?" House rubbed his leg softly.

Wilson was surprised by his sudden change in mood. "She's not Stacy, you know. She won't leave."

"Jimmy, I've almost lost her twice in six weeks."

"But you didn't."

"But I can – believe me, one of us can still find a way to sc*** it up."

The House added, "How the hell did you manage to keep walking down the aisle when the marriages kept ending in disappointment?"

"I don't know, I'm just a romantic I guess. I always think the next one will be different."

House thought about it. He had been thinking about things since Friday when she let the "Daddy" word slip. Maybe Wilson could help him figure this out.

"It's like my piano."

"Cuddy is like your piano?"

"No, our relationship is like my piano."

"Explain," Wilson demanded, with a quick wave of his hand.

"I never let anyone touch it. The cleaning lady knows she'll get fired if she even leaves a tiny print on it. I measure where the bench is in relation to the piano before she comes over. I stack magazines on it to see if they get moved. Sometimes I even take digital pictures."

"House, this is worse than I thought. Are you still seeing the shrink from Mayfield because I highly recommend-"

"I do that because if it gets moved just a tiny bit one of the hammers can be loosened just a millimeter, or a string can tighten just so and the next time I am playing Bach's Sarabande in E Minor and I run into that key that strikes the weak hammer or tight string the melody will go to cr**."

"And if you don't let anyone touch it, the melody won't go to cr**."

"Right."

"But the piano tuner can touch it, right?"

"What?"

"The piano tuner, I assume you employ a piano tuner to tune your piano regularly."

"Of course. What does that have to do with my metaphor?"

"I don't know."

"Who is the piano tuner?"

"Forget the piano tuner."

"You're the one who mentioned the piano tuner."

"House!" Wilson was trying to keep calm. He could tell that House was really trying to have an adult conversation about Cuddy, about his feelings and their future, but it was so damned hard for Wilson to do it this way with riddles and metaphors.

Wilson tried again. "If you never let anyone touch your piano, then by definition you couldn't touch it, and then you couldn't play Bach's Sarabande in G Minor."

"E Minor," House corrected.

"Yes, of course, E Minor."

"That was better than the damned piano tuner."

"Thank you," Wilson said, giving his friend a slight bow, though he was left exhausted and utterly confused by the conversation. He wasn't sure if he was telling House he should break up with her, marry her or get her pregnant. But he had told him something, because House was thinking.

**Ch. 58: Sleeping Like a Baby **

On Monday, James Wilson was starving by noon and could not wait for House to be finished with his duty at the clinic in order to have lunch. He headed towards the cafeteria, thinking at least he would be able to eat his entire lunch without House mooch off of him. As he picked up his tray after paying the cashier, he turned to find Cuddy waving him over.

They sat together and ate in relative silence. He and Cuddy were friends, good friends. They suffered every one of House's ordeals together. Apart from House they had other things in common as well, like an appreciation for art and theater. Since House had returned from Mayfield, Wilson hadn't really had that much of an opportunity to spend time alone with Cuddy.

He still hung out with House, maybe even more than he used to - House was just a bit more willing to venture out of his apartment these days. That was one of the ways that Cuddy had been good for him.

But with Cuddy it was different. Now that House was with her, she didn't need to confide in Wilson the way she had about the adoption. She didn't need him the same way she used to, and Wilson couldn't stand being the third wheel even though they sometimes asked him over for dinner or drinks.

Wilson didn't think things would be any different if he himself were married or paired up. He thought about Amber and wondered how disastrous a double date might have been. No, not a good idea, he thought. Even a good old-fashioned game of Trivial Pursuit would have been sure to end in the apocalypse. They were all so competitive. The point was he hadn't really talked to Cuddy in a long time.

"How have you been, Lisa?" he asked finally, interrupting the silence.

"Great, I am great. Busy, you know, performance reviews will be due soon, preparing for the fundraiser, the usual," she added.

"What about House? How are things going with him?"

"Things are fine. Did he ask you to ask me?"

"No," he clarified, "I'm asking as your friend."

"Did he tell you anything?" she asked, suspiciously.

"No," he repeated, annoyed she kept asking.

"About the other night?" she asked again.

Wilson responded quickly, "You are the one who sent him to the clinic after his diagnostics class and then came here for an early lunch and proceeded to wave me over. You are the one who seems to want to talk to me. And by the way, sending him to the clinic at your whim in order to pump his best friend for information – in most circles that would be considered an abuse of power- and not cool."

"You have been hanging around House too much," she said sarcastically.

Then her look softened.

"What is it?" Wilson asked, sincerely now.

"He really hasn't told you what I said the other night?"

"Lisa, you would be surprised with how much of what happens between you he keeps private, and also by what he shares," he added, widening his grin, "but yesterday we talked mostly about his piano-"

"I called him Daddy," she said quickly.

"Daddy? While you were making love?" he asked, a look of confusion and horror flashing across his youthful face.

"God no," she said shocked. "I told him I wouldn't want Rachel to know what Mommy was going to do to Daddy."

"I see," said Wilson slowly, suddenly understanding why House had actually wanted to talk about the relationship yesterday.

"After everything we've been through, I have probably scared him off."

"Not necessarily, he didn't leave, did he?"

"Well, not right away."

"So you didn't scare him off."

"Maybe not yet, but you know House, he is going to fixate on it and analyze it and before you know it-"

"He'll analyze it but it's the truth of what the comment meant that will matter to him. It is always about the truth with him."

Cuddy didn't respond.

"Do you want to get married?"

"I always thought I did, but I don't know anymore, if it happened, I guess, but it's not something I need."

"Do you need him to be a father for Rachel?"

Cuddy thought about his question, and about her relationship. She didn't have any girlfriends to talk to, and if she did, they would all be screaming at her to get away from House, so she was grateful to have Wilson there to break things down with her.

When she began the adoption process for Joy, she was not counting on House to help raise her. She was not counting on any man, actually, since she began IVF a couple of years before. She was confident in her own ability to be a good single mother. But now, now she had fallen in love with House.

"It's like when Rachel is sleeping."

"House is like Rachel?"

"No, our relationship is like Rachel when she sleeps."

"Explain," Wilson demanded, feeling a bit of déjà vu.

"When Rachel is sleeping, I don't want anything to disturb her. I keep noise at a minimum. I tip toe into the nursery if I need to get something. I practically hold my breath so she doesn't stir. I even turn the ringer down on the phone."

"Cuddy, I don't know anything about raising babies, but that sounds a bit excessive to me. I'm being serious here, that's just not healthy." Wilson couldn't decide which one of his friends was more neurotic. He was convinced more than ever that they belonged together. They would make each other perfectly happy and perfectly miserable at the same time.

"If I step on the floor and the wood creaks a certain way, then she is up and whaling for the next hour or two. She is a good sleeper, but once she is disturbed from her peaceful rest, she becomes a mess - she doesn't handle being startled well."

"Do you sing her lullabies?"

"Yes, sometimes."

"Are these the same lullabies your Mom sang for you?"

"What do lullabies have to do with my metaphor?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, the same one's my Mom would sing. What does that mean?"

"It was a mistake," he said, dismissing his own idea with the wave of his hand, "forget the lullabies."

Wilson tried to regroup. He said, "When she was younger and she went to sleep for the night, you would pick her up and give her a bottle at around midnight, wouldn't you, even if she was asleep?"

"Yes, so she wouldn't wake up hungry in the middle of the night."

"So you were able to determine when it was best to pick her up and feed her, and nurture her, without disturbing her peace?"

"Yes," Cuddy answered, slowly now, "I was."

Wilson wasn't sure what he had told her, but he had told her something, because Cuddy was smiling.

What he had intended to tell both of his friends over the past two days was that they are the ones who know best when and how to move the relationship forward. He wanted them to trust themselves and stop being afraid. They were finally so close to having everything that Wilson had ever hoped for them, yet he still had the nagging suspicion that one of them would sc*** it up.

**Ch 59: Fourteen Minus One**

It was Wednesday. Monday and Tuesday had gone by quickly for House. The pain seemed to have stabilized at a 4. The best part of the effect of the sinequan was that the relief was consistent. On the Vicodin, he would feel great when the opiate entered his bloodstream, it was a real high, but the return of the pain when it started to exit the bloodstream was sudden and sometimes excruciating. That is how he started dry swallowing the pills with reckless abandon. With the sinequan, he was at an uncomfortable 4, but it was predictable and it was a pain he could live with.

The past three days had been hectic at the hospital. Wednesday had started with House the dreaded diagnostics class. After teaching the interns, yet again, that memorizing their textbooks would do nothing for their ability to save a patient's life, he went to physical therapy. The rest of the day had been spent with the team on a ddx for a new patient.

The patient was a 17-year-old high school senior suffering from dysphagia. Her parents had dragged her to a psychologist believing she had an eating disorder. House understood why they were concerned; she had lost over 25 pounds in a couple of short months. But if they had bothered to talk to her instead of jump to conclusions the way idiot parents always did, they would have known she was experiencing extreme pain when she swallowed. She was not anorexic, she just didn't like pain, and House, for one, didn't blame her.

The parents House had met on the job over the years, as well as his own, had often made him wonder if people should be required to pass some kind of intelligence test before being allowed to procreate. Then again, he had also toyed with the idea that perfectly intelligent people become complete idiots when it comes to their kids. Parents and kids, motherhood and fatherhood, and Rachel, this had been on his mind during the past several days, and still, no answers.

The high school senior was their second patient this week, their third as a group after Watson. As he watched them work on the ddx, House finally started to see that this group might be able to work well together. Of course, Thirteen and Taub still spent way too much time listening and rejecting ideas, and Cameron and Foreman spent way too much time teaching and directing their thinking. But still, they were finding their rhythm.

On good "team" days like this one House missed Kutner. He had been on his mind since last week. House was sure that Kutner would have supported the white matter biopsy for Watson from the beginning. He was sure Chase would have supported it too, but Chase would have done so as a kiss a$$. Kutner would have done it because he too believed in taking medical risks when they were required. For all that everyone joked about Foreman being like House, House knew that it was Kutner – it was Kutner who reminded him of his younger self.

House checked his watch, the one Kutner had given him as a Secret Santa gift, and brought his thoughts to the present. Foreman was at the white board, volleying questions to the team. "No," he said to Taub's suggestion that it was systemic. "Why can't it be systemic?" he asked the group.

"She feels pain when she swallows either solids or liquids, so it's functional dysphagia not obstructive dysphagia," said Thirteen. Foreman nodded.

Cameron added, "That also rules out inflammatory strictures." Thirteen said, "And tumors too."

Foreman continued, "So what is left?"

"Is the tongue involved?" asked Taub.

Foreman didn't need to look at the file. "No," he said, keeping his gaze on Taub, almost willing him to take the next step.

"What about the brain stem. Vascular brain stem disease could present with pharyngeal dysphunction."

"Good," Foreman said, "What else?"

Thirteen said, "Dermatomyositis, or hyperthyroidism, they can also lead to pharyngeal dysphunction."

"Good," Foreman responded again. "Anything else?"

House thought it was his turn to play. "Maybe her boyfriend thinks she is too fat, she is anorexic and she's lying about the pain."

"Maybe," said Foreman, "but we don't have a diagnostic test for that, so let's rule these out first."

"Autoimmune," said Cameron. "Myasthenia gravis can also cause the pharyngeal dysphunction."

Foreman put in on the board. "Let's start with the brain stem MRI, and the necessary bloodwork." The team headed out to begin the tests.

Foreman stopped in front of House before he followed the team down the hall. "Did we miss anything?"

"Nope – but I need to talk to you."

It occurred to House during the week that Foreman was ready, and he demonstrated it again during the ddx. He was finally more focused on the patient and the disease than he was on trying to be a good leader. He was finally trying to lead the others to the finish line, rather than dragging them there on his coattails.

"Have you heard of Dr. Berger at UCLA?"

"The chief diagnostician?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Of course."

"When Cuddy built this department, she built it modeled on his."

"I know."

"He's good."

"And?"

"He is a genius, but presently he is a genius who had a nervous breakdown of some sort. I got an e-mail this morning. He's taking a two-year sabbatical to the Himalayas."

"Six weeks in a psychiatric hospital would be easier," Foreman said.

House faked indignation by holding his heart and continued, "I told him I knew someone who was ready for the job."

"What?"

"You're ready, Foreman. I sent him your CV and my recommendation. The job is yours if you want it."

"What? You sabotaged me the last time I-"

"That's because you weren't ready yet. You are ready now."

Foreman looked at House. He had been sure that House had scre*** with him two years ago out of some selfish reason to keep him here working under him, out of jealousy, or the need to manipulate others. He had never considered that he had done it for him. He still wasn't sure if he bought it. But he wanted to.

"I don't know– California-"

"They have a good dean over there, Smiley. He's not Cuddy, not even close, he doesn't have the shapely bod or the collection of thongs, that's for sure, but he will give you some slack, more than most."

"You're serious."

"About the thongs, I think so, but don't know for sure."

"I appreciate it, House, I do, I need to think about it though, it's a big-"

"Yep," House interrupted, "it is a big," he stated, not finishing the sentence.

"Would I inherit staff or hire staff?"

"Berger keeps five fellows – they are bigger than we are. According to his e-mail, one opens in the Spring, and two more next year. The other two fellows were just hired – they have three years to go."

"So I can hire one in the Spring?"

"Look, Foreman, it's none of my business," House said, "but what you are thinking is stupid. New job, new pressures, and she still needs training. As sure as I know you are ready to take this step professionally, bringing her with you will kill your relationship faster than you leaving her here, not to mention what it will do to your career. I recommended you because I think you are ready to take the medical risks necessary to save your patients, not to watch you take personal risks that will end your career."

Foreman looked down pensively, then back up at House. "Thanks House, really, I'll think about it" Foreman said. "I had better go check on the team."

A couple of hours later Thirteen came back. House headed to the board and she said, "No, we don't have anything yet. I just wanted to talk to you."

Another fight with Thirteen, House thought to himself. He wondered why he hadn't begged Foreman to take her to California with him instead of dissuading him. Maybe she would have hooked up with an aspiring actress in Hollywood and swung the other way again.

"I just wanted to thank you – for what you did for Foreman. That's a great opportunity."

House cleared his throat, still waiting for the punch.

"Look, it would have been easy for you to send me off with him as a package deal, I know I'm a pain in your a$$."

House was again wondering why he hadn't.

"But you told him it wouldn't be good for him or for me, and you are right."

House let out the breath he had been holding.

"He has grown to worship you over the past few weeks, and if you hadn't said that, that he shouldn't take me, then he might have, and being weak, I would have gone, and you are right, it would have ended badly."

House wasn't sure how to respond, so he kept quiet. She looked a little to emotional for a sarcastic response, and he wasn't willing to have a heart to heart. Worship was a good, strong word, though, and he was pretty pleased with himself.

"So thank you – for what you did, for both of us."

She had started to leave, frustrated that she had just had the very difficult conversation with herself, when House said, "You're welcome."

Holy sh**, House suddenly thought to himself as he sat in his chair, alone in his office again. I just made another staffing decision without consulting Cuddy.

**Ch. 60: Penance**

House was in the clinic late Wednesday afternoon, working extra hours, hoping to ease Cuddy's anger when she heard the news that he had basically gotten Foreman another job. He should have probably walked right into her office and told her, but he could never bring himself to apologize for doing the right thing. This had always been a problem for him.

When he was little, his mother used to beg him to apologize to his father, or stepfather, or whoever he was. "Greg, if you would just apologize, he will go easy on you, please, just say you are sorry." But no, he had preferred the ice bath to an apology that he didn't mean.

Years later it drove Stacy absolutely nuts that he wouldn't apologize for hurting her feelings after a fight. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I told you the truth. I have nothing to be sorry for." They had been down that road a hundred times before the infarction.

Perhaps the worst example of this character trait had to do with Amber's death. He suppressed much of the guilt, of course, but at the root of his problem with Wilson had been the idea that House could not apologize. "I wasn't driving the bus," he had said. House had learned, over the years, to accept the consequences for his words and actions, but he still couldn't apologize when he knew he was right.

Foreman worked for him in his department. House should have the right to hire and fire. He had trained him over the past five years, and he was dam*** pleased to see that Foreman was finally ready to go train other doctors himself. Why should he need to ask permission or beg forgiveness for doing his job?

The first few patients he saw at the clinic were idiots with colds. Apparently, they preferred to wait in a free clinic for three hours to see a doctor than actually take cold medicine and feel better. The next two were dim wits with venereal diseases. Of course, they practice safe sex. Everyone does. They must have contracted their diseases from public toilets or the hot tub at their health spa.

At 4:55 p.m. House walked into Exam Room 2. That's where he found Amelia Rhodes, a 31-year-old waitress who was suffering from some kind of skin ailment. House opened the chart, skimmed it and then turned his attention to Amelia. Her skin was blotchy and irritated, and she wouldn't stop scratching. He actually watched her for minute, scratching furiously, her legs, her face, her arms – she was scratching all over.

She began, "I have been really itchy for the past few days. It is making me crazy – nothing helps."

"Do you have any allergies?"

"No."

He used his stethoscope to listen to her breathing. "Stop scratching for a minute so I can-"

"I can't stop, it itches."

He moved back, took a deep breath and warned her again. "I need you to be still so I can hear your bronchial-"

"I can't, I swear, I am going crazy." She was getting agitated and literally drawing blood with her scratching.

"Well, if you keep at it like that you can add skin infections to whatever allergy is causing-"

"I told you," she said while she kept scratching feverishly, "no allergies."

House grabbed both of her hands with his left hand and listened to her breathing with the stethoscope using his right hand. "Okay, your breathing is okay, you can go back to scratching your skin off."

"Have you tried antihistamines?" he asked.

"No, because I don't have allergies," she said, still scratching. "Do you have a hearing problem?"

House took another deep breath, trying to make it out of the clinic without a patient filing a complaint. He didn't need to give Cuddy additional reasons to ride his a$$ today. "Have you had any fever or any pain in the last few days?"

"No. Please, just make it stop."

"Pets? Do you have any new pets?"

"I have a new puppy."

"How new?"

"Two weeks."

"When did the itching problem start?"

"About two weeks ago."

House rolled his eyes. "I am about to rock your world. You have an allergy, and the antihistamines that you could have picked up at the drug store two weeks ago will alleviate your itching. Buy them. Take them as directed on the little box."

She ignored his sarcasm, "But – I've never had an allergy before."

"Allergies can be spontaneous, and I am guessing you've never had this puppy before."

"So that's it?"

"That's it." He handed her a prescription for cortisone and added, "And get rid of the dog."

"You're a jerk," she said as she left the exam room.

"And you're a moron," he called out after her. Unfortunately, Cuddy was walking down the hall when she heard the final exchange.

"Didn't you learn anything from the whole Tritter thing, House?" she asked while standing at the door of Exam Room 2.

"Yeah, I learned Tritter was an a$$, and that you had the hots for me so bad you tried to score a conjugal visit." He could tell she knew. She was wearing her angry eyes.

"I was thinking along the lines of be nice to people so they don't turn around and bite you in the-."

"But being honest is so much more important than being nice."

She pushed him back into the exam room and closed the door behind her. "I like where you're going with this – did you lock the door?" he asked goofily, buying some time.

"House," she said, ignoring his question "if you really cared about honesty, you would have told me you had recommended Foreman for Berger's job before I took a call from Smiley 10 minutes ago."

"Ooops, my bad."

"Really, is that the best you can do?"

"Okay, I should have told you, it hit me this morning that he was ready, then I got the e-mail from Berger and then we had a patient, and I observed his ddx, and damnit, Cuddy, it's my department."

"And your department is a part of my hospital, and in my hospital we follow the rules," she was raising her voice and using her administrator 'I'm the boss of you' tone. This tone, when she used it, would either turn him on or make him feel like an insignificant ant, or sometimes both. Today he just felt like an ant.

"This isn't about you, Cuddy. For fu***'s sake, everything isn't about you or about us. I wasn't trying to be subversive, or to pi$$ you off, this wasn't a part of a game, Chase isn't running a pool, it just happened – I didn't mean for you to look foolish to Smiley, but I made a good call today, I made the right call today, one I am happy with."

"House, you may have made the right call, but you did it the wrong way. You can't-"

"Every department head in this hospital can run the tests they need on their patients without your signature, they can hire and fire without-"

"You knew the rules when you took this job-"

"The circumstances were different then - I am off Vicodin, I can-"

"House, you and I both know that when it comes to your job, you will do what it takes to save your patient. Every other department head also considers the hospital."

"Well, that's stupid."

"Maybe, but as long as you continue to fight only for your patient, to care only about your puzzle, I need to be here to fight for the hospital, and all of our other patients. I'm sorry, but this is one fight we will keep having."

He knew she was right. He had always known he needed Cuddy to rein him in. She made him a better doctor. And he loved the fight, and he knew she did too. He was actually trying to make a big deal out of everything in order to distract her. He was trying to keep her from inflicting further clinic torture on him for his oversight.

He was sincere, though, offering again, "I didn't mean for Smiley to catch you off guard."

"Don't be an idiot, House, I'm a big girl. I told him I started evaluating Foreman in your absence and that the whole thing was my idea. Then we compared the nervous breakdowns of our genius heads of diagnostics."

House looked up at her, his eyes widening, his look one of pure astonishment. He had always known she was an evil, cunning woman, but this was masterful, even for her.

"Okay, boss," he said sarcastically, conceding his loss, "how many hours do I need to spend in the clinic to make up for this 'violation' of the terms of my employment?" He used air quotes for emphasis, though his careful and slow pronunciation of the word rendered them unnecessary.

"No – no hours House."

"Really?" he asked, smiling now. He was wondering if it was his argumentation skills or his bedroom skills that had helped him sneak out of this one. He moved in closer.

"But I do need you to make a presentation to the Board next month about the benefits of 9.4 Tesla MRI machine in diagnostic medicine. I am lobbying for one."

House's eyes lit up, like a little kid on Christmas morning. "The 9.4 T is pure, unadulterated awesomeness – we can use it for metabolic studies, even to note changes in actual brain cells without biopsies – a neurologist should present - I'll talk to Foreman."

"Actually, sweetheart," she said, grabbing his shirt and pulling him even closer towards her, "he will probably be in California, so I suggest you get to work on your Powerpoint skills."

House laughed softly, understanding that he had walked right into it. She was that good.

He headed towards the door of the exam room but turned back to say, "This does leave me with an open position for a senior fellow."

"I'll send over some resumes to you in the morning for your review."

He winked at her and then flashed his most wicked grin.

"House, you aren't planning another game, are you?" she asked, concerned.

"Me?" he smirked as he opened the door and started to walk out. "How well do you know me?"

**Ch. 61: Saturday Night **

It was Saturday night and House was home, alone. He found it interesting that the day most couples reserve for spending time together and going out on dates was the day he and Cuddy were least likely to be found together. She was usually off running errands or spending time with Rachel, and he either hung out with Wilson or hung out by himself. That would be different tonight, however, as she had called to say her sister and mother had come by unexpectedly to pick up Rachel for the night.

Things were still a bit awkward between them away from the hospital. Each knew the other was thinking about the future, but they were afraid to talk about it out loud. They were afraid to mess up a perfectly tuned piano or to wake up a peacefully sleeping baby. But still, they were thinking.

After Cuddy arrived, they sat on the couch and ate Chinese Take-Out while watching tv. Law and Order was on the USA network, and Cuddy liked the show. It was annoying to watch it with House because he could always figure out the case before the second commercial break, but at least he had learned to keep it to himself. It had almost become a game of Clue, with House writing down the killer and the motive and the evidence that led him there on a sheet of paper and placing it face down under the bottle of Scotch for her to review after the end of the show.

"Damnit, you were right again."

"I am just a truck-load of awesome," he responded. "At least you know if you ever get murdered, I will find your-"

"House, if I ever get murdered, I am pretty sure you will have done it."

"Oouch," he said, getting up to turn off the tv.

He wanted to bring it up, the conversation about the future. He wanted to ask her if she wanted to move in together – he hated giving up his place, his apartment had been his only companion for much of the past 10 years, but her place was bigger, and it made more sense. After talking to Wilson about the piano and Bach's Sarabande, that's what he had decided he wanted. He knew he couldn't just be this guy sleeping with Cuddy, he had to figure out who he would be.

He remembered asking her to move in with him that last day before Mayfield. He had forgotten Rachel even existed. She had laughed at him and fired him as her response. Of course, he didn't blame her, considering all of the events of that day, but still, it made this conversation seem even more difficult.

And what if moving in together wasn't for her? All of the endless fights with Stacy about marriage still haunted him. If Cuddy wanted a ring and the whole ridiculous show, well, he just didn't know. It didn't help that he didn't know of a single marriage that actually worked. Wilson's three marriages had failed, his parents, well, why bother thinking about their marriage, they may have stayed married until John House's death but the relationship had been nothing more than another fraud. Even Stacy had cheated on Mark. His patients, they lied to their spouses or were lied to by their spouses. He had reasons, good ones, for his cynicism.

And then there was Rachel. He couldn't seriously consider moving in with Cuddy until he was sure about his role with Rachel, until he had wrapped his mind around it, and he hadn't come close to doing that. Could he be a father to her? Could he be a father to anyone?

He wasn't just worried about the statistics now, how his abuse made him more likely to be an abuser. He was thinking about his selfishness and general a$$hood. Cuddy had offered him her informed consent regarding the a$$ he could be, but Rachel, Rachel was an innocent child. She needed protection, the way he had when he was growing up.

They put away the empty take-out containers and then House headed towards the piano to play for her. It seemed to get her in a good mood, and it bought him some time to consider his words more carefully. Cuddy curled up on the couch under a throw blanket. House played beautifully as always. She closed her eyes and remembered that magical night in the jazz club in New York. He kept playing, running his fingers across the keys with purpose. Like that night in New York, Cuddy was mesmerized.

Because he wasn't ready to talk about their future, he decided instead to touch on another topic he had been meaning to discuss, their past.

House asked as he played, "Did you sleep with Lucas, my PI guy?"

"What?"

House kept playing, not missing a note. "Just wondering, did you?"

"You sent him to me."

"I sent him for information, not to your bed," House responded, still playing the melody.

"And what would that matter? You had no claim on me."

House stopped playing abruptly and limped over to the couch, lifting her feet and sitting under them. "It's just a question, Cuddy. I didn't say it would matter, I was just wondering."

"I went out with him twice. We kissed after the first date and made out a little after the second. He left when I said things wouldn't work out. He wasn't my type."

House felt a pang of jealousy. He did not like to think of her being with anyone but him. Then he smiled. "I won."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He was massaging her feet. "He wanted to fight me for you, I asked him to bow out, and I didn't know if he had. He didn't, and I still won."

"You have to know how everything fits, don't you, even a silly puzzle from over a year ago."

"It's a blessing and a curse," he said, arching his eyebrows.

"Well, what about you?"

"I didn't sleep with him," House quipped, "he wasn't my type either."

"Are you sure you want to have this conversation?"

"I started it."

"Why didn't you ever sleep with Cameron?"

"How can you be sure I didn't?"

"Because she looks sane."

"Nice."

He continued, "She's smart and pretty, but she wouldn't have been much of a conquest."

"And I am?"

"Cuddy, you are the Mount Everest of conquests, and I am not talking about you're a$$ this time."

She kicked at him playfully.

"Your turn. Why didn't you marry that tool from Michigan, Peter whatever his name was?"

"Why would I have married him?"

"I know he asked you."

Her heart skipped a beat. That was after House had gone for his internship. He had kept tabs on her. And he wanted her to know that he had. "He wasn't my type."

"You're cheating, you can't say that for everything."

"What do you want me to say, House, that he wasn't you? That I haven't been able to find a single man that challenges me or interests me in any way because all they would be is a replacement for the one I really wanted?"

He smiled, it was a big smile that told her that was exactly what he wanted her to say. Before he could enjoy her admission, she continued.

"Stacy. Why did you break it off? She was going to leave Mark for you, she told me."

House paused. He leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes. Her question was harder than his. "It wouldn't have worked," he said slowly. "She and I were having problems even before the infarction. I could never have been what she wanted, Mark could, it was a no-brainer-"

"But she wanted to try, and you were still in love with her, the pain in your leg came back hard after she--"

"Cuddy, I was done trying. It shouldn't have been that hard."

"Besides," he added. "Things were good with her at first, but after she came back and left again I realized that she had really just been a replacement for the one woman I really wanted."

His hands started to move up her legs, and she sat up and kissed him softly. "That was a good answer," she said. They kissed more passionately, with their hands roaming each other's bodies, but then she pulled away and said, "About the other night, the comment I made-"

"I can't talk about it until I am done thinking about it," he said, pulling back from her a bit to study her expression.

"There is nothing to think about-"

"Then there's nothing to talk about," and his lips found hers again. Cuddy broke off the kiss and looked into his eyes. She wasn't sure what she needed him to say, but she needed something, some reassurance that he accepted Rachel, that he understood he couldn't be a part of her life without being a part of Rachel's.

House understood that something was required of him, and he carefully considered what he would say. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally began, "When Rachel got sick, when she had the fever, I felt bad for the kid, but was more worried about you and what her being sick would do to you. The ddx in the doctor's lounge, I did that for you more than for her. I couldn't stand to watch you worry about her, to watch you suffer."

"Okay," Cuddy said slowly, not sure where this was going.

House gently stroked her long, smooth legs but kept his eyes on hers. "If she got sick today, if your mother called and said she was headed to the ER, I would be frightened for both of you."

He had found the way to tell her that his feelings for Rachel had grown over the past few weeks. He understood she and Rachel were a package deal. That is all Cuddy needed to know. She reached for House's neck and held him tightly.

**Ch. 62: Changes**

On Sunday night, Cuddy was knocking at his door again. She had his key, the one he had given her, but she didn't like to use it when he was home, especially if he wasn't expecting her. She had told House she was spending the day with her Mom, but she had actually spent it running an errand in New York. She had just enough time to drop by her mother's to pick up Rachel before making it back to House's by 9 p.m.

He opened the door, "I'm a cripple, you know, use the damn key," he said gruffly, using the door knob to hold himself up a bit. When he looked at Rachel on her hip Cuddy swore she saw his eyes flicker.

"You may not be able to outrun me, but you can make the walk from your couch to the door without being a complete a$$," Cuddy responded.

He shushed her for her language and covered Rachel's ears. "I thought you were spending the day with your Mom and the demon," he said, taking Rachel from her arms and gently tossing her in the air, causing her to giggle hysterically.

"I did," she said quickly, feeling guilty about the fib, "but I got back early and thought I'd swing by."

"If you didn't get enough of the horizontal mambo last night," he said, now sitting on his couch and holding Rachel, piercing her eyes with his, as if he were studying a curiosity, "why'd you bring a chaperone?"

"We're not staying," Cuddy answered, "we're picking you up. Grab your jacket, I have something I want to show you."

"Sorry, no can do, catching up on General Hospital on the soap channel. My evil boss made me miss Friday's episode-."

"House," she said, "Come on, don't make this so hard. I know you weren't expecting us, and you were planning to stay home and watch your ridiculous soap opera, but try to be a little flexible here."

"Oh, but I am flexible," he said, tickling Rachel, making her laugh at loud. "Didn't you find me flexible enough last night?"

Cuddy took a deep breath. She wanted to yell and scream. But she knew he didn't deal well with change. They would have to work on this. She was up to the task. She grabbed his jacket and tossed it at him.

"Look, I know there is a blood-stained carpet in your office as a testament to your inability to handle even the slightest change in your life, but I have a surprise for you in my house, and unless you get your a$$ off that couch-"

"Mommy," he said, feigning outrage, "the language! The demon will hear you," he said, putting Rachel on the floor and watching her pull to a standing position while he put on his jacket and grabbed his keys. He leaned in and gave Cuddy a quick kiss, then he turned off his tv and said, "This had better be good."

As she drove towards her place, he asked, "Did you tell your Mom about us?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, d-i-d y-o-u t-e-l-l y-o-u-r M-o-m a-b-o-u-t u-s?" He said it extremely slowly, in a dramatic fashion.

"Oh, you mean, did I thank her for watching Rachel so I could spend the night at my boyfriend's place, scre*** him with reckless abandon?"

"That's not how I would have put it, but-"

"No, House, not yet."

"Does it make you nervous, telling your fam-"

"No, of course not, it's just-"

"I told my mom about you."

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did."

"When?"

"Okay, I didn't. But I will."

"So will I."

"You just saw her a little while ago, it would have been perfectly natural for you to-"

"Should I turn around and head back towards her house so I can tell her? It's only an hour and a half away. Maybe she can fix us up a late supper and you two can play canasta all night long."

He put his hand on her leg. "Relax," he said, laughing.

They had arrived at her house. She parked in the driveway, turned off the engine and put her head on the steering wheel. "Why do you have to push my buttons all the time, even when you aren't invested in the argument?"

"I don't know, I guess it's like foreplay to see your eyes light up when you fight."

She opened her car door and headed towards the porch as he pulled Rachel out of her car seat. She turned back to him, "Are you telling me we had been engaging in foreplay for the past 20 years?"

He was up at the door with Rachel. "Yep."

She turned to him as she unlocked the door, "Well, at least that explains the sex."

She turned the light on and he put Rachel down. She stood and he leaned down to hold her hand and help her take a few steps. Then he saw it. It was at the far end of the living room. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The mahogany was glossy. Clearly it was an antique, but as he limped closer to it he could see it had been expertly restored and refinished. His eyes were opened about as big as Cuddy had ever seen them.

Cuddy was next to him, enjoying his reaction. He handed over Rachel's hand to her and opened the baby grand Mason & Hamlin. He played a scale, then an arpeggio. "How did you-" He was speechless.

"I hope it's okay. I asked the guys at the jazz club you took me to, they said you would like-"

"Cuddy, this is a 1950s baby grand, from the jazz-"

"It belonged to Red Garland, at least that's what-"

"Red Garland? One of the best jazz pianists ever, Night Train? You have to know Night Train," and he played a few notes.

Then he pulled her over, and she sat on the bench next to him with Rachel on her lap while he played the song he had written for her the night of Rachel's naming ceremony. His eyes were moist, and Cuddy simply smiled, knowing finally that she had done something right. The music was melancholic, and it perfectly expressed their individual journeys to this moment. She had wanted him to feel at home in her home, and she had wanted him to know that she did not expect him to give up his own place. They weren't very good at talking about their relationship, but they were good with gestures. The piano, she hoped, would tell him all of these things, as the desk in her office told her the very things she needed to hear.

House had never received a present that was selected with so much love and understanding. His mother had loved him, but she had done it mostly in hiding, in secret, while she was consumed by fear. He couldn't believe Cuddy had gone through the trouble of choosing this gift, of buying it, or putting it in her home for him. After he played the last few notes, he looked over at Cuddy and put his arm around her.

He sat there quietly, thinking about Amber, thinking about the white bus, thinking about the three things he had wanted, and how lucky he was, at 50 years old, to finally have them.

"This must have cost you-"

"I have the money, I just never had anything that mattered to spend it on."

"This is…this is marvelous," he said, still trying to catch his breath, trying to understand this gift.

"I wanted you to be comfortable here," she said, as Rachel started playing a few random notes.

"I am," he said, softly grabbing Rachel's hand and guiding it to middle C. "I feel like I'm finally home."

Later that night, they were holding each other in her bed after another wonderful marathon love making session. There was no talk about the future. There was no worry about it. There wasn't any awkwardness about it. They just were.

**Epilogue**

House and Cuddy never did have the conversation about their relationship. Somehow, things just evolved and settled on their own, like a man who knows that playing his piano won't disturb the way it sounds, or a mother who knows how to pick up her infant daughter and feed her without disturbing her sleep.

Slowly, House brought his clothes over, not all of them, but most. Slowly, Cuddy made room for his guitars and his books and journals. He kept his apartment, there was no question that he would. It was a hideout, a safe house, a place where either of them could go for escape, where he could compose his masterpieces in peace, where they sometimes went together for a getaway, where he could host poker parties with Wilson.

He kept his apartment, but he did spend most nights at her house, and he even had dinner with her mother. He surprised Cuddy that day by being the most charming she had ever seen him. Of course, she had been relieved when her mother left that he was still the same snarky, irreverent man who turned her on so much.

Late one afternoon, after a challenging ddx had taxed him, he found Cuddy in the hall near his office at the end of the day. She looked tired, he thought, and she had her bag and brief case with her. Obviously, she was ready to head home. She was talking to a nurse, but when the nurse walked away, she caught his eye. He limped over, clutching is cane and his backpack.

"Do you realize where we are standing?" he asked.

"Is this a trick question?"

"No. Look around. Do you realize where we are standing?"

"House, I'm tired. It's been a long day. Get to it already."

"No, actually, you are going to have to figure it out."

She breathed out heavily, knowing he was not going to give her any clues.

"We are standing in the east hall on the third floor at PPTH," she said, sarcastically, knowing he couldn't argue with that fact. "Can we go home now?"

"Not until you tell me what happened between us here in this hall."

He moved her so that she was facing him directly. He stood across from her and looked at her intensely, willing the memory into her mind. Her eyes lit up, and then they moistened just a bit. She replayed the scene in her mind. _I was wondering if we should move in together…her demonic laugh…you're fired… _

She closed her eyes tightly to hold back her tears. Then she took a couple of steps forward to get closer, though careful not to get too close. Everyone at work knew they were seeing each other, they had known since Wilson brought Rachel to the ER. Yet they still abided by their unspoken rules about boundaries and professionalism in public. She said quietly, "That was six months ago. I think we took care of that question without ever actually talking about it."

He chuckled and said, "That's a good thing since we probably would have scre*** everything up by talking."

They smiled as they walked together towards the elevators. Entering the elevator, he asked, "So, what's for dinner tonight? I am starving. Wilson didn't buy nearly enough lunch for the both of us today."

"Oh, I don't feel like cooking - maybe we can order pizza or something." She added coyly, "I've been nauseous and lightheaded most of the day, and my breasts are so sore."

House looked at her and she watched as his expression changed from curiosity, to panic, to wonder. He opened his arms and she fell into them softly as the doors closed.

Suddenly, someone pulled the doors open again, they jumped out of their embrace and were relieved to see it was Wilson. "I thought you guys had rules about public displays of affection at work," he said a little sarcastically, "and let me add, by the way, that the eye sex you are constantly engaged in does indeed count as a PDA."

"We do have rules, Wilson, my boy, but today we are celebrating," House said gleefully, his attention on Cuddy's flat stomach.

She shot him a stare. House winked at her.

"What?" Wilson asked. "Celebrating what?" he asked, taking a peek at Cuddy's left hand to see if House had actually proposed.

Wilson was a little too obvious, causing House and Cuddy to giggle uncontrollably.

"Come on, now you are both in junior high?" Wilson asked, exasperated.

"We are celebrating the fact that you have a date tonight," House said, matter-of-factly, as the elevator doors opened, revealing the lobby. They walked through it, still talking.

"How? How do you do it? I didn't even put it in my datebook, it's not on my phone's calendar, how in the hell did you figure out-"

"You are wearing that ridiculous shirt that Bonnie gave you that you seem to think you look so good in, your shoes have obviously been shined, I can smell your cologne, and oh yeah, you are pale and look terrified as hell," House mocked. "You can't keep things from the master, Wilson, you should know that by now."

Wilson was visibly frustrated as he opened the hospital doors for his friends, "It's Debbie Smith from orthopedics."

"Oh no, here we go again, another Wilson relationship. Why does this one need you to save her?" House snarked.

"I, I don't know yet. It's our first date." The three of them continued walking towards the parking lot.

Cuddy stopped suddenly, stood in front of Wilson and adjusted his tie. "You look nice, James. Just be yourself," she offered, "and have fun."

"Thank you Lisa," Wilson responded, for effect, "it is nice to know that at least I have your support."

As they got further from the hospital building House slipped his arm around Cuddy's waist and she leaned closer to him. He stopped and turned to Wilson, "Just a little advice, Jimmy. Don't tell her about all of the ex-Mrs. Wilsons yet, you tend to confess your past infidelities when you get nervous, so watch yourself. And remember what happens to Little Wilson when you drink too much."

"Thanks, House, I am sure you mean that in the kindest of ways," Wilson answered as Cuddy laughed.

Then House's demeanor changed, and he looked at him sincerely, somberly even, catching Wilson off guard with the honesty of his deep blue eyes. Clutching Cuddy tightly by the waist, House said, "Seriously, Jimmy, have a good time - you deserve to be happy, we all do."

**THE END**


End file.
